i 


Dallas  G-albeaith 


Mrs.    R.    HARDING    DAVIS, 

Autho7-  of  "Waiting  for  the   Verdict^''  " Margret  Ilowtk"  etc. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
B.    LIPPINCOTT    AND    CO. 

1868. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Lippincott's 


To  7ny  friends  at  Manasquan,  I  inscribe  this  story,  in  which  I  have  tried 
to  outline  their  coast,  and  the  curiously  genuine,  kindly  hutnan  life  tipon  it: 
in  remembrance  of  the  hearty  good-will  with  which  they  have  made  7ny  home 
among  them  pleasant  for  many  years. 

R.  H.  D. 

Manasquan,  July  26,  1868. 


t-LA  rr>*>frcr 


Dallas  Galbraith. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  "■  I  ''ELL  him  that  it  was  on  this  coast 

-L     that  the  ship  went  down.     Let 

him  send  me  warranty,  and  I   can  find 

the  treasure  hidden  among  these  rocks." 

The  two  or  three  fisliermen  who 
were  loading  the  schooner  pricked  up 
their  ears  :  there  was  a  secret  under- 
current of  meaning  in  the  deUberately 
worded  message,  perceptible  to  every 
one  of  them  ;  some  obscure,  mysterious 
significance  which  seemed  suddenly  to 
oddly  set  apart  the  words  and  the  man 
diat  spoke  them  from  themselves  and 
tlieir  everyday  work.  They  looked  up 
from  the  barrels  they  were  lifting,  turn- 
ing perplexed  faces  out  to  the  great 
plane  of  the  sea,  or  along  the  desolate 
coast,  and  then  glanced  shrewdly  at  each 
other :  they  joked  about  it  when  they 
went  under  the  hatches,  out  of  his  hear- 
ing ;  but  the  jokes  had  but  little  relish 
in  them,  and  fell  dead  ;  and  the  men  went 
on  with  their  work  after  that  in  silence, 
dhewing  the  cud  of  the  matter,  as  is  their 
habit. 

It  was  a  colorless,  threatening  even- 
ing out  at  sea ;  a  nipping  gust  driving 
the  few  white  sails  in  sight,  like  shiver- 
ing ghosts,  across  the  horizon  that  barred 
the  east  like  a  leaden  wall ;  the  masses 
of  water  moving  towards  shore,  slow, 
sombre,  dumb.     But  this  was  only  the 


sea:  no  one  can  tell  in  the  quietest 
summer  day,  on  land,  what  storm  or 
disaster  is  hid  in  that  womb  of  death 
yonder. 

On  shore,  the  mellow  October  sunset 
was  shining  pleasantly  on  the  white 
beach,  up  to  which  the  yellow,  fishy 
little  schooner  was  hauled  close,  and  on 
the  men  in  their  red  shirts  :  the  raw 
wind  was  tempered  to  a  bracing  breeze, 
and  the  waves  lapped  the  sand  and  the 
keel  of  the  vessel,  with  a  tamed,  sleepy 
purr.  The  marshes,  because  of  the 
heavy  rains  that  year,  still  held  their 
summer  coloring,  and  unrolled  from  the 
strip  of  beach  up  to  the  pine  woods  a 
great  boundary  belt  of  that  curious,  clear 
emerald  that  belongs  only  to  the  sea 
and  seashore  growths.  Beyond  this 
belt,  two  or  three  comfortable  brown 
cows  were  grazing  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  and,  here  and  there,  in  the  forest, 
a  whiff  of  smoke  wavering  to  the  sky, 
or  a  good-bye  red  glimmer  of  the  sun 
on  a  low  window,  told  where  the  houses 
of  the  village  were  scattered. 

If  village  it  could  be  called.  About 
a  mile  from  the  schooner,  and  the  little 
buzz  of  life  about  her,  rose  one  of  the  two 
great  headlands  well  known  to  all  mari- 
ners :  they  jut  out  into  the  sea  as  though 
they  were  grim,  warning  sentinels  over 
this  terrible  coast  of  sunken  breakers 
and   whitening  bones.     A  sharp  ridge 

5 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


stn\ck  f>-om  this  upper  headland  into  the 
background  of  forest,  and  in  the  circling 
hollow  wliich  it  formed  lay  the  lonely 
collection  of  farmers'  and  fishers'  houses 
then  called  Manasquan.  A  curiously 
old-time,  forgotten  village,  to  belong  to 
the  New  World  :  shut  in  from  any  world 
by  the  ocean  on  one  side,  and  the  inter- 
minable pine  forests  at  the  other,  through 
which  at  this  time  only  the  charcoal- 
burners  had  burrowed  their  way. 

The  man  (a  middle-aged  Quaker)  who 
had  sent  the  message  which  had  so  puz- 
zled the  fishermen,  was  a  stranger  on 
this  coast :  its  strange  solitariness,  the 
utter  silence  into  which  it  fell  when 
transient  sounds  had  passed,  oppressed 
and  stifled  him.  He  had  paced  up  and 
down  the  hard  beach  all  the  afternoon, 
watching  with  his  dull,  light-blue  eyes 
the  Sutphens  seining,  and  after  that,  the 
loading  of  the  schooner.  It  seemed  to 
him,  of  all  corners  of  the  world,  the  one 
totally  forgotten  and  passed  by  in  the 
race.  He  wondered  if  justice  ever  over- 
took crime  here — if  even  death  remem- 
bered to  harvest  his  crop.  Something 
of  this  he  dropped  in  a  half-intelligible 
way  to  old  Doctor  Noanes,  who  came 
limping  up  from  his  rickety  house  by 
the  ridge  to  walk  with  him,  wearing  a 
patronizing  air  towards  him  before  the 
fishermen,  but  secretly  a  little  afraid  of 
the  sharper  wits  of  the  strange  Friend. 
But  he  fired  at  the  slur  upon  the  village. 

"We're  of  older  build  than  New 
York,"  he  said,  "but  we've  kept  clean 
of  crime  and  c'ruption  :  we've  held  to 
the  ancient  landmarks  :  there's  no  fami- 
lies gone  in  and  out  from  us  since  colony 
times.  Them  nags  of  mine,  now,  has 
no  flash  strains  of  blood,  but  their 
grandsire  carried  my  grandsire,  Peter 
Noanes,  into  the  fight  at  Monmouth.  I 
don't  ask  better  than  that." 

The  Friend,  who  had  taken  oflf  his 
broad-brimmed  hat,  the  better  to  catch 
the  evening  air,  stroked  the  gray  wisps 
of  hair  on  either  side  of  his  ruddy  face, 
fixing  on  the  dried  face  of  his  companion 
his  lack-lustre  eyes. 

"The  men,"  Noanes  said,  "ord'narily 
followed  the  water;"  and  he  began  to 
sonorously  roll  out  their  names — Lad- 


douns,  Van  Zeldts,  Graahs,  as  though 
it  were  the  calling  of  the  great  Jewish 
tribes  or  Scottish  clans.  His  hearer  was 
forced  to  remind  himself  that  there  were 
not  twenty  men,  all  told,  among  them. 
A  belief  was  creeping  on  him  that  this 
community  was  a  power  in  the  land,  if 
it  did  act  only  through  ships'  mates 
and  the  masters  of  coast  schooners ; 
leather-skinned,  hairy-breasted  men,  who 
brought  back  from  their  voyages  but 
little  profit  or  knowledge  beyond  their 
wages,  and  fresh  stories  of  storms  at 
sea. 

"  Manasquan  men  be  known  as  seamen 
throughout  the  civilized  world,"  asserted 
the  Doctor,  shoving  back  his  wig  per- 
emptorily. "  Ther's  Jim  Laddoun  ;  he 
was  hired  as  mate  in  an  English  brig. 
He's  been  as  far  as  the  Barbary  Coast. 
Them  Britishers  know  a  good  thing 
when  they  see  it,  and  snap  it  up,  quick 
enough." 

"  True,  true,"  deliberately — the  atten- 
tive gaze  never  lea\-ing  the  pupils  of  the 
Doctor's  eyes.  It  was  a  queer  trick  the 
stranger  had ;  with  a  slight  crook  to  one 
side  of  Ills  head,  it  gave  him  the  look 
of  a  deaf  man,  or  one  absorbed  in  his 
companion's  words.  At  any  rate,  it 
usually  drew  out  from  people  a  good 
many  more  words  than  they  had  intended 
to  speak.  The  old  Doctor  found  it  gave 
a  real  gusto  to  their  talks  :  he  told  his 
best  stories  to  the  stranger — stories  that 
included  the  histories  of  the  Van  Zeldts, 
Graahs — all  of  them.  (He  had  silenced 
his  wfe  when  she  echoed  the  village 
wonder  as  to  who  the  old,  brown-coated 
fellow  was,  and  what  secret  business  he 
came  to  pry  into. 

"He's  a  well-bred  person — the  best 
bred  I've  met  for  years.  What  should 
you  know  of  men  of  the  worid?  Do 
you  think  there's  nothing  at  Manasquan 
which  educated  people  think  it  worth 
while  to  inquire  into  ?") 

"  Laddoun  ?  Laddoun  ?"  replied  the 
Friend,  thoughtfully.  "  Thee  belongs  to 
that  stock  thyself,  Doctor  ?" 

Noanes  gave  a  pleased  sniff.  "You 
have  a  keen  memory  for  genealogies. 
Yes,  my  mother  was  one  of  them.  But 
there's  only,  two  of  the  name  now — the 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


mate  I  told  you  of,  and  the  young  doctor 
at  the  village." 

"  George.  A  generous,  genial  fellow, 
eh  t     Hospitable,  I  should  say." 

"Oh,  I'll  warrant  for  him  !  He'll  be 
ha\nng  you  to  feed  and  liquor  at  the  inn 
before  now.  He's  a  little  too  free  with 
both  his  money  and  his  gab — George. 
He  keeps  a  dozen  lazy  beggars  up,  now. 
But  he'll  mend,  likely.  The  Laddouns 
had  always  brains  and  pockets  like 
sieves.     They're  slack, — leaky." 

"He  has  seen  the  world,  he  tells  me. 
On  his  brother's  ship  ?" 

"  No ;  he  went  to  lectures  in  York  and 
Philadelphia.  I  can't  say  that  it  spoiled 
him  much  ;  he  come  back,  thinking  bet- 
ter of  old  Manasquan  than  ever,  show- 
ing more  sense  than  I  looked  for.  There 
wasn't  a  child  in  the  village  that  didn't 
take  a  holiday  when  he  come.  George 
is  a  main  one  for  children,  especially 
when  they're  big  and  hearty.  My  Bob 
used  to  count  on  him.  No,  I've  nothing 
against  George  Laddoun,"  reflectively. 

'•  There  he  is." 

They  had  made  a  turn  on  the  beach, 
and  were  coming  toward  the  schooner 
with  the  leisurely  pace  befitting  their  age 
and  gravity.  Laddoun,  coming  down 
the  ridge  with  a  boyish  whistle  and  leap, 
stopped,  with  a  shamed  blush  and  laugh, 
before  his  fellow-practitioner.  "  This 
bracing  air  makes  a  boy  of  me,"  apolo- 
getically, bowing  to  both  of  them.  "  But 
a  famous  leaper  like  you,"  to  Noanes, 
"can  forgive  a  fellow.  I'd  like  to  have 
tried  you  at  the  standing  jump,  twenty 
years  ago." 

"  I'd  have  put  you  to  your  mettle,  sir. 
A  pleasant-spoken  dog,"  complacently 
lighting  his  pipe  as  the  young  man  went 
on,  and  measuring  his  broad  back  and 
low  height  critically.  "  A  well-built  fel- 
low, say  ?  strong  joints,  and  sockets  well 
oiled.  D'ye  see  ?  his  limbs  move  easily 
in  his  clothes  and  shoes.  I'd  Hke  to 
have  tried  a  leap  with  him  well  enough. 
But  them  days  is  over.  The  old  lion's 
bones  is  stiff." 

The  Quaker  had  paid  but  slight  atten- 
tion to  the  short,  athletic  figure,  or  its 
loose-fitting  suit  of  gray  corduroy.  If 
he   had    any  fancy  for  compelling   the 


secrets  of  other  men  into  his  own  keeo- 
ing,  he  apparently  looked  for  them  no 
farther  than  in  the  pupils  of  the  eyes. 
George  Laddoun  had  met  him  ar  i^rst 
with  his  pleasant,  bold  glance,  turning  it, 
however,  in  a  moment  uneasily  away. 
The  young  fellow,  with  all  his  stout 
muscle  and  hot  blood,  was  easily  abashed 
as  a  girl. 

He  came  up  to  the  fishermen  -wath  a 
cheery  "  Hillo  !" 

"  Hillo,  Laddoun  !"  It  was  young 
Jim  Van  Zeldt  who  answered  him,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  shifting  his  cigar 
from  one  side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other. 
He  was  the  owner  of  the  vessel.  The 
other  men  were  too  busy  straining  over 
a  barrel  which  they  hfted  to  speak. 

"  You've  got  a  hefty  load  there,"  pull- 
ing off  his  coat,  "  Take  out  your  cigar, 
Jim,  and  put  your  own  shoulder  to  !  Yo, 
ho  !"  as  the  barrel  went  in.  He  worked 
along  with  the  fishermen  until  the  load- 
ing was  done,  singing  some  students' 
song,  he  had  learned  when  abroad,  in 
a  billowy,  free,  bass  voice.  Nobody 
thanked  him  when  the  work  was  finish- 
ed, and  he  stood  perspiring  more  than 
any  of  them,  sopping  his  shining  black 
hair  and  red,  handsome  face.  But  the  men 
knev/,  of  course,  how  much  better  stuff 
was  in  him  than  in  that  milk-faced  Jim 
"Van  Zeldt,  who  paid  them  to  the  last 
penny  for  their  work,  but  never  lifted  a 
finger  to  help,  or  cracked  a  joke.  Jim  was 
the  only  man  on  that  beach  who  paid 
for  work ;  with  the  others  it  was  all 
"neighbor-help."  Evening  had  come 
on  before  the  last  load  was  in  :  a  gray, 
gusty  evening,  as  we  said — the  strange 
silence  and  melancholy  which  belonged 
to  this  coast,  as  though  the  dead  beneath 
the  curdling  breakers  would  not  be  for- 
gotten, growing  deeper  as  night  ap- 
proached. Doctor  Noanes  was  gone, 
but  Ledwith,  the  strange  Friend,  had 
come  closer  to  the  schooner,  and  was 
standing  with  his  white,  pursy  hands 
rolled  into  each  other,  behind  him.  watch- 
ing the  men  from  under  the  shadow  of 
his  wide-brimmed  hat,  with  the  usual 
inexpressive,  abstracted  look  on  his  fat 
face.  The  men  resented  his  presence 
with  that  uneasy  impatience  which  ani- 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


mals  show  when  a  strange  creature  not 
of  their  sort  is  near.  This  man  was 
foreign  to  them.  His  dress,  speech, 
habit  of  silence  had  never  been  known 
to  them  before  ;  and  under  these  was  a 
strongei  instinct  of  ahenism  from  their 
salty,  seafaring  ways.  It  was  noticeable 
that  they  stood  aloof  from  him  as  much 
as  might  be,  leaving  his  tall,  square  figure, 
in  its  outlandish  garb,  Hke  a  strange 
shadow,  alone  on  the  beach.  It  was 
just  before  the  last  cord  of  wood  was 
taken  in  that  he  gave  the  message  to 
Van  Zeldt.  It  came  out  of  a  curious 
custom  belonging  to  the  beach.  The 
mails  were  carried  at  long  intervals,  and 
even  then  were  of  most  uncertain  de- 
livery. The  schooners  which  carried 
the  fish,  game  and  lumber  up  to  the 
New  York  markets,  ran,  too,  at  irregular 
times — only,  in  fact  when  it  suited  the 
convenience  of  their  owners — but  the 
means  of  transportation  they  offered 
were  secure  and  rapid.  It  became, 
therefore,  a  habit  with  the  masters  of 
these  vessels  to  make  a  sort  of  public 
notice  of  their  time  of  departure  and 
willingness  to  carry  messages  or  parcels 
to  the  upper  harbors.  There  were  many 
of  these  little  formal  old  customs  hanging 
about  the  settlement. 

When  Jim  Van  Zeldt  made  his  an- 
nouncement, it  was  responded  to  by  no 
one  but  the  stranger,  Ledwith,  who  ap- 
parently was  prepared  and  waiting  for  it. 

"  We'll  turn  off  for  the  night  now," 
said  Van  Zeldt,  when  he  had  spoken, 
looking  out  to  the  gathering  shadows. 

"  I  have  a  message  for  thee."  The 
clear,  decided  voice  made  Van  Zeldt  and 
the  men  turn  :  the  words  which  follow- 
ed were  in  a  lower  key,  slow,  measured, 
as  though  he  weighed  each  by  some 
hidden  meaning  known  to  himself  alone. 

"When  thee  reaches  New  York,  a 
man  will  meet  thee  on  the  wharf,  habited 
in  a  dress  like  mine,  asking  for  tidings 
of  the  ship  Terror." 

"  She  does  not  ply  on  this  coast," 
interrupted  Laddoun,  with  the  oflT-hand, 
peremptory  tone  habitual  to  him,  which 
expressed  a  thorough  knowledge  of  all 
matters,  great  and  small. 

The  Quaker's  dull  blue  eye  did  not 


turn  on  him  for  an  instant :  yet  in  the 
momentary  stolid  pause  which  he  made, 
the  young  man  had  an  uncomfortable 
sense  of  having  been  weighed  and  found 
wanting. 

"  He  wiU  inquire  of  thee,"  he  re- 
sumed, in  the  same  slow  monotone,  "  of 
a  vessel  lost  years  ago — the  Terror: 
tell  him  that  it  was  on  this  coast  that  the 
ship  went  down.  Let  him  send  me  war- 
ranty, and  I  can  find  the  treasure  hidden 
among  these  rocks." 

"  I  will  carry  the  message,"  said  Van 
Zeldt,  gravely,  with  no  word  of  question 
or  surprise.  Laddoun  checked  the  ex- 
clamation on  his  lips  after  a  hasty  glance 
at  the  dark,  solid  figure,  and  immovable 
face  turned  seaward.  It  sent  a  chill  of 
doubt  and  fear  over  his  healthy  body,  as 
if  he  had  unconsciously  touched  the  re- 
pellant  pole  of  an  electric  battery. 

"  The  ship  Terror  was  lost  on  these 
rocks  fifty  years  ago,"  he  said  in  an  un- 
dertone to  Van  Zeldt,  as  they  walked  up 
the  beach  together,  leaving  the  stranger 
still  watching  the  melancholy  sea  fine — 
"an  emigrant  ship,  with  three  hundred 
souls  aboard." 

"You're  never  at  fault,  Laddoun," 
admiringly. 

"  There  are  few  matters  into  which  I 
have  not  looked,"  smiling,  and  running 
his  thick  white  fingers  through  his  glossy 
hair.  The  little  chord  of  vanity  struck 
had  brought  him  altogether  in  tune  again. 
"  But  there  was  no  treasure  in  her. 
That  old  fellow  is  after  Kyd's  doubloons, 
and  he  thinks  to  throw  us  off  the  scent 
by  lugging  in  the  name  of  this  wreck. 
But  he  had  need  to  be  awake  early  to 
blind  George  Laddoun,  eh  1  or  you, 
Jim,"  with  an  encouraging  tap  on  the 
back. 

They  walked  in  silence  up  the  grassy 
break  through  the  woods  which  one  or 
two  wagon-ruts  marked  as  the  road,  and 
stopped  where  a  path  struck  off  to  Van 
Zeldt's  house.  Laddoun  fingered,  break- 
ing the  bark  off  a  dead  cedar,  with  an 
unwonted  softening  and  hesitation  in  his 
look  and  motions. 

"You'll  make  a  quick  run  of  it,  Jim?" 
he  said.  "  You'll  be  back  in  time  ?  For 
Thursday  ?" 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"I  know,  ril  tr}-,  Laddoun.  The 
more  because  Noanes  tells  me  you're 
going  to  bring  but  a  few  of  us  in." 

"Yes.  A  man's  married  but  once, 
and  he  ought  to  have  his  own  way  about 
it.  I'll  treat  the  village  afterwards  ;  they 
sha'n't  complain.  But  there's  rough 
jokes  made  at  our  country  weddings 
tliat  I  don't  choose  my  wife  to  hear." 

With  the  tender  inflection  in  his  tone, 
and  quieting  of  his  eye,  there  was  a  cer- 
tain swelling  defiance  in  his  whole  burly 
body,  which  to  mild  Httle  Van  Zeldt 
was  thorouglily  lordly.  A  man  was  in 
no  mean  sort  a  hero,  who  could  put 
Alanasquan  at  arm's  length  thus. 

"  You're  the  right  sort,  George,"  he 
said.  "  When  you're  settled  and  a  house- 
holder, you'll  bring  matters  up  to  the 
right  standard  hereabouts.  They  be  to 
follow  you  like  sheep  the  bell-wether — 
that  they  be." 

''It  won't  be  to  their  injury,  then," 
frankly.  "  Things  need  cleaning  and 
managing  as  they  don't  know.  I'll  do 
what  I  can  for  the  place,"  loftily.  "And 
for  you,  Van  Zeldt,"  putting  his  hand  on 
the  smaller  man's  shoulder,  as  a  prince 
might  caress  a  favored  courtier.  "  You'U 
not  fail  us  on  Thursday  ?  I  want  none 
but  true  friends  about  me  and  Lizzy." 

The  pompous  voice  a  little  unsteady, 
and  the  florid  face  losing  color.  "I'm 
serious  when  I  say  that  I  mean  to  push 
your  fortune,  old  boy,"  after  a  pause. 

"  There  be'n't  a  day  when  you're  not 
pushing  some  fellow  along." 

"  So  ?  You  think  that  of  me  ?  Well, 
well !  it's  Httle  I  can  do.  But  God  help 
us  !  it  sickens  me  to  look  down  on  any 
man  below  me  in  the  mire  ;  and  it  don't 
need  money  to  give  help,  always.  For 
you,  I'll  strengthen  your  trade  up  yon- 
der. I'm  not  a  man  without  mark  in 
the  great  cities,  Jim.  The  world's  deep 
as  weU  as  wide,  and  one  can  dig  secrets 
out  of  her  in  Alanasquan,  and  make  a 
name,  as  easily  as  where  men  crowd 
together.  I  hke  to  think  I'm  here  in 
the  woods,  dragging  out  of  nature  the 
means  to  fight  death  up  yonder."  The 
whole  manner  of  the  man  altered ;  a 
generous  glow  flushed  to  his  temples, 
his  voice  rang  out  earnestly. 


"You  mean  them  chemicals,  Lad- 
doun ?"  after  a  puzzled  pause.  "  I  thought 
that  boy  of  yours  did  that  work.  He's  put 
his  soul  into  the  herbs  and  black-drops 
he  makes  out  of  them.  It's  a  pity,  too. 
It's  trifling  work,  and  he  be  genooine," 
raising  his  voice,  "  Galbraith  be ;  I've 
reason  to  know  that.  He  be  the  kind 
of  man  to  anchor  to." 

Laddoun  combed  his  whiskers  with  a 
pleased  smile. 

"  Yes,  he's  good  stuff.  I  discovered 
him.      I  made  him." 

Van  Zeldt  turned  quickly,  but  was 
prudently  silent.  Laddoun  was  unwa- 
rily touching  on  a  matter  which  hitherto 
had  been  held  secret. 

"  Made  him  as  entirely  as  you  cut 
those  decoy-birds  out  of  poplar  yonder" 
— then  stopped,  with  a  gulp  for  breath, 
as  if  checked  by  some  inward  sting. 
"  Well,  he's  useful,  as  you  say,  to  collect 
and  sort  materials  under  me.  But  a 
hand — a  hand.  It  is  the  head  that  is 
needed  in  my  trade,"  touching  his  nar- 
row, high  forehead  with  the  forefinger, 
on  which  shone  a  round  purple  stone. 
"  Good-bye, Van  Zeldt.  You  will  be  down 
at  the  shop  to-night  ?" 

"Yes."  Van  Zeldt  stood  leaning  over 
the  trunk  of  the  fallen  cedar,  a  generous 
twinkle  of  admiration  through  all  of  his 
insipid  face,  as  the  stout,  broad  figure 
disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the 
woods.  Laddoun  was  moulded  out  of 
such  different  clay  from  his  own  !  There 
were  men  to  command  and  men  to 
serve,  just  as  there  were  king-fish  and 
clams  in  the  sea  yonder. 

Even  the  cool  Quaker,  who  had  taken 
the  bearings  of  most  men's  minds  with 
those  lightless  blue  eyes  of  his,  had  felt, 
against  his  will,  a  sort  of  magnetism  in 
the  young  village  hero  under  all  his 
coarse,  thin  varnish  ;  something  which 
warmed  the  air  about  him,  put  a  hearty, 
genial  look  on  the  face  of  things.  Van 
Zeldt,  therefore,  was  not  to  blame,  if 
Laddoun,  with  his  mysterious  talk  of 
cities,  and  of  secrets  dragged  out  of 
nature,  crowned,  too,  wnth  his  lucky  love- 
making  in  a  quarter  where  he  had  failed, 
became  to  him  a  sort  of  demi-god ;  and 
if  he  watched  even  the  yellow  cotton 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


gloves,  the  high  hat  and  boots,  asserting 
themselves  blackly  beyond  all  other  hats 
and  boots,  with  a  dumb  envy  and  won- 
der. Nor  was  poor  Laddoun,  either, 
much  to  blame,  if  he  accepted  himself 
at  the  same  valuation.  The  men  about 
him  had  labeled  him  with  the  highest 
trade  mark,  even  when  they  were  all 
boys  together. 

He  went  tramping  along,  his  heavy 
boots  crunching  on  the  needles  of  the 
pines,  roaring  out  one  of  his  everlasting 
songs.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who 
constantly  feel  their  blood,  which  hap- 
pened in  his  case  to  be  slightly  thick 
and  viscous ;  men  with  nervous  lips,  the 
balls  of  whose  eyes  habitually  inflate 
and  contract,  and  whose  hds  are  often 
wet  with  tears.  His  nerves  were  all 
on  edge  now  ;  the  days  were  full  of  zest 
and  triumph  ;  full  of  thoughts  of  the 
medicines  he  had  invented;  of  his  wife, 
of  the  place  he  meant  to  hold  in  the 
village.  Two  or  three  generations  back, 
one  of  his  Milesian  ancestors  had  rid 
himself  of  the  family  fortune  in  a  few 
years  of  tempestuous  jollity  and  hospi- 
tality ;  but  his  blood,  eyes,  and  uncertain 
lips  had  stayed  behind  as  heirlooms, 
and  Laddoun  had  them  now,  with  all 
that  they  implied. 

While  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
woods  he  met  Galbraith,  whom  the  vil- 
lage people  called  his  shop-boy,  but 
whom  Laddoun,  in  his  melodramatic 
way,  had  dubbed  his  familiar.  To  him, 
as  he  walked  home  with  him,  carrying 
his  basket  and  tin  cases  of  roots,  he 
relieved  his  mind  of  his  plans :  how 
Van  Zeldt  was  to  be  pushed  up,  and  a 
school-house  got  under  way,  and  a  poor- 
con'ribution  taken  up  before  winter,  and 
also  a  public  subscription  for  a  testimo- 
nial to  old  Doctor  Noanes. 

"  They  do  such  things  in  towns,  Dal- 
las, eh  ?  And  I'm  ruining  the  old  fel- 
low's practice.  Besides,  it  will  bring 
the  people  together.  We  need  unity, 
centralization,"  with  a  sweep  of  his  eye 
over  the  hamlet,  as  though  it  covered  a 
vast  community,  ending  with  a  glance 
for  approval  at  the  tall,  raw-boned  lad 
beside  him,  who  was  watching  his  face 
eagerly  with  a  bewildered  look. 


"  I've  no  doubt  you're  right,  Lad- 
doun," he  said,  gently;  "there  are  a 
good  many  words  I  don't  know  the 
meaning  of  yet,"  quietly  shifting  the  tin 
cases  to  the  other  arm. 

"  So  ?  Poor  fellow  !  It  will  come  in 
time,"  putting  one  hand  on  the  bony 
shoulders,  and  looking  kindly  into  the 
girhsh  face.  "  Say  !  Galbraith,  these  are 
a  cursedly  old  cut — ^your  trowsers.  I 
must  rig  you  out  new  for  the  wedding. 
It's  a  shame  I  let  you  wear  a  shirt  like 
this,"  pulling  out  the  ragged  edge  of 
clean  flannel  about  his  neck.  "I'm  a 
poor  patron,  they'll  say." 

Dallas  looked  down  at  his  uncouth 
rig,  and  laughed :  a  hearty  roar  of  a 
laugh.  "  But  I'll  only  take  what  I 
earn,"  said  he. 

"  Pshaw !  there  should  be  no  such 
talk  betAveen  you  and  me."  They  ex- 
changed a  swift,  significant  glance,  which 
gave  to  the  boy's  face  for  the  instant  a 
curiously  old,  worn  look. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  give  to  you  ? 
There's  nobody  in  Manasquan  to  whom 
I  don't  mean  to  give  a  lift." 

"  Look  what  you're  doing  !  Curse  it, 
you  lout !  look  there  !"  savagely  dragging 
Laddoun  off"  the  path. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Nothing  but 
a  lame  quail  ?  Bah  !"  stooping  coolly 
over  the  mangled  mass  of  bloody  feathers 
which  Dallas  picked  up  and  turned  over, 
drawing  quick,  spasmodic  breaths,  which 
made  Laddoun  smile  as  he  would  at  the 
rage  of  a  child. 

"  Why,  you  young  \nper  !  you'U  turn 
on  the  hand  that  feeds  you  ?"  good- 
naturedly.  "Your  muscles  are  steel, 
Dallas.  You  shook  me  as  if  I  were  a 
stick.  Put  tliat  thing  down  ;  I  did  not 
see  it." 

The  quivering  of  the  bird  on  his  palm 
seemed  to  madden  the  boy.  "  You  did 
not  see  it  ?  You  see  nothing,  George 
Laddoun.  You've  nobody  to  speak  the 
truth  to  you  but  me.  It's  well  enough 
to  keep  your  eyes  on  the  sky,  nv-iking 
plans,  and  let  your  feet  and  hands  do 
what  they  will.  But  murder  comes  of 
it." 

George  Laddoun's  face,  againsi  the 
background    of  the    tree    on  which   he 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


leaned,  grew  suddenly  of  a  deathly 
white ;  but  he  gave  neither  word  nor 
motion,  only  to  lean  forward,  and  scan 
with  half-shut  eyes  the  boy's  face  as  he 
turned  the  quail  over  gently  in  his  hand, 
putting  it  to  his  cheek  again  and  again, 
as  a  woman  would  be  apt  to  do.  If 
Galbraith  had  any  thought  beyond  the 
bird,  he  held  it  out  of  sight  with  a  skill 
which  baffled  Laddoun.  Presently,  he 
laid  it  down  softly. 

"  It's  dead  now,"  stretching  out  his 
arms  with  a  long  breath.  "  I  was  rough 
with  you,  Laddoun,"  turning  to  him. 

"Yes,"  with  a  loud,  uncadenced  laugh  ; 
"  I  should  say  you  were  cursedly  rough. 
You  forget  who  you  are,  and  who  I  am, 
Dallas." 

"  I  don't  forget,"  quietly  gathering  his 
scattered  roots  into  his  basket.  "  But 
you  have  had  an  easy  life.  Now,  when 
I  see  a  thing  put  under  foot  like  that,  I 
think  I  feel  the  lash  on  my  own  back 
again." 

"If  you  remember  the  lash,  you 
oughtn't  to  forget  who  took  it  off," 
keeping  the  same  intent  scrutiny  on 
every  shade  of  meaning  in  the  boy's 
face.  "  Whatever  comes  to  me,  there 
are  reasons  why  you  should  be  true  to 
me,  Galbraith." 

There  was  nothing  melodramatic  in 
Dallas  to  answer  this  touch.  "  You've 
been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Mr.  Laddoun," 
he  said,  simply,  "but  I  mean  to  tell 
you  the  truth  for  all  that ;"  and  picking 
up  his  basket  he  jogged  along  in  a  grave 
silence.  Laddoun  followed  him,  making, 
with  laborious  efforts,  indifferent  remarks 
from  time  to  time  ;  but  all  the  vivacity 
and  spirit  had  died  out  of  him.  He 
tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  boy's  past 
life,  and  look  at  him  with  a  stranger's 
cool  judgment.  Was  there  no  secret 
hid  under  this  old-fashioned  sincerity, 
this  simple-hearted,  credulous  nature  1 
There  was  not  a  child  in  the  village  who 
would  not  run  after  the  queer,  lank  boy 
to  make  him  head  in  the  game  of  ball 
or  marbles,  nor  an  old  woman  who  had 
not  some  time  shared  her  cup  of  tea  with 
him.  Laddoun  scanned,  as  a  man  on 
trial  for  his  life  would  the  faces  of  the 
jury,  the  unmarked  features  of  the  lad. 


pausing  again  and  again  on  his  eyes. 
They  always  had  baffled  him.  The  rest 
of  the  face  held  nothing  ;  it  was  but  a 
child's — indistinctive  ;  worn  perhaps  by 
hunger  or  want,  but  the  eyes  were  deep- 
set  and  sparkling,  full  of  sweet  temper 
and  laughter. 

Nothing  more  .''  Was  there  any  power 
of  reticence  in  them  to  hold  back  a  fatal 
secret  for  life  .'' 

George  Laddoun  could  not  tell ;  they 
had  baffled  a  keener  inspection  than  his, 
and  that  not  long  ago  ;  even  while  he 
watched  him  now  they  turned  on  him, 
steady  and  honest.  One  thing  he  knew, 
that  they  belonged  to  something  stronger 
than  himself 

Galbraith,  boy  like,  forgot  his  trouble 
after  a  while  ;  began  to  whistle  shrilly, 
grubbing  under  the  scrubby  bushes  for 
roots,  after  his  usual  fashion,  stopping 
when  they  came  to  an  open  bit  of  sand 
to  set  down  his  basket  and  turn  summer- 
saults to  the  other  end.  Laddoun  waited 
good-naturedly,  leaning  on  the  fence. 

"  Well  done,  Dallas  !" 

"I'm  growing  too  fat — I'm  not  as  lim- 
ber as  I  was,"  looking  down  with  a 
pleased  laugh. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  worried  you,  Gal- 
braith," placing  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
in  a  half-timid,  deprecating  way,  very 
different  from  the  patronizing  tap  on  the 
back  which  was  his  ordinary  greeting  to 
the  villagers.  "  I'd  no  mind  to  bring 
up  old  times  to  you.  They're  dead  and 
gone  now." 

Galbraith  nodded.  One  of  those 
vague  notions  which  children  have  cross- 
ed his  mind — a  wonder  whether  those  old 
times  were  not  dead  and  in  hell ;  but  the 
impression  was  but  slight,  and  a  moment 
afterwards,  with  a  loud  hillo  !  he  was 
rooting  under  some  leaves  for  a  great 
bee-ant,  like  a  lump  of  crimson  velvet. 

"  I  want  you,  sir,  and  some  of  your 
brothers  !    Yo,  ho  !"  caging  it  in  a  leaf. 

"  Poor  Dall !  There's  nothing  in  his 
brain  but  childish  folly,"  thought  Lad- 
doun as  he  strode  on.  "  He  throws  all 
trouble  of  old  times  out  of  his  mind, 
just  as  water  on  the  boil  gets  rid  of  scum 
and  dirt  a-top  ;"  and  with  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  relief,  he  began  to  throw  snatches 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


of  bass  into  the  lilt  Galbraith  was 
wliistling.  With  the  relief  his  own  boy- 
ishness awakened  and  the  habitual  pro- 
pensity to  do  something  kind,  he  left 
Galbraith  squatted  on  the  ground  with 
his  ants,  and  hurried  on  to  a  little 
wooden  shanty,  which  was  set  down,  Hke 
all  Manasquan  houses,  in  the  middle  of 
the  cedars. 

«  The  little  chap's  been  at  work  since 
dawn.  I'll  build  his  fire  for  him,"  push- 
ing open  the  door  and  going  in.  In  a 
few  moments  a  pile  of  wood  was  crack- 
ling on  the  hearth,  and  George,  rubbing 
his  hands,  came  out,  and  waving  his  hat 
to  Dallas,  who  came  slowly  up  the  path, 
turned  off  towards  the  far  farm-houses. 
In  a  moment,  however,  the  boy  was 
panting  after  him. 

"That  was  downright  good  in  you, 
Mr.  Laddoun.  Come  back  and  eat  your 
supper  with  me.  I've  made  a  broiler  for 
crabs,  and  it's  famous  ;  you  ought  to  taste 
them  these  cold  nights,"  pulling  at  his 
coat  while  he  spoke. 

"  I  can't,  Dallas  ;  I'll  send  some  of  the 
boys  down,  though." 

« All  right !  Tell  them  I  have  the 
crabs." 

Doctor  Noanes,  in  his  buggy,  mean- 
while had  driven  up  and  stopped.  "  Take 
a  seat,  Laddoun  ;  I'll  give  you  a  lift. 
That's  an  honest-faced  boy,"  when  Gal- 
braith was  gone.  "  Yet  there  are  queer 
stories  afloat  about  him,"  with  a  side 
glance  at  his  companion's  face.  It  was 
imperturbable. 

"  What  sort  of  stories  ?" 

"  That  you  picked  him  out  of  some 
den  of  corruption.  That  he  has  a  toler- 
able black  record,  if  one  could  see  it." 

"  Any  place  outside  of  Manasquan  is  a 
den  of  corruption,  according  to  the  talk 
here,"  with  a  rage  which  struck  the 
shrewd  old  doctor  as  too  sudden  to  be 
real.  "  As  for  Dallas,  you  can  see  for 
yourself  what  he  is.  There's  not  many 
men  could  make  a  place  for  themselves, 
as  he's  done,  in  this  village.  And  he's 
bare  sixteen." 

"  He's  got  to  be  a  necessary  sort  of 
fellow  to  everybody,  that's  true,"  warmly. 
«'  I  don't  know  his  equal  for  nursing,  or 
coddling  children.      There  be  my  Joe, 


now ;  when  he  was  down  with  the  scar- 
let fever,  nobody  would  serve  him  but 
'  Dallas — Dallas.'  So  I  sent  for  the 
fellow,  and  I'll  say  this,  that  under  God 
he  saved  the  boy.  There  be  no  woman 
about  our  house,  you  know,  and  he  took 
the  place  of  one.  Still,  I  thought  I'd 
mention  the  queer  stories  to  you.  You'd 
best  contradict  them." 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

But  Noanes  remembered  afterwards 
that  he  did  not  contradict  them  to  him, 
but  remained  gloomily  silent  during  the 
remainder  of  the  drive. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Galbraith  meanwhile  went  back  to 
his  house,  and  prepared  to  spend  the 
evening.  It  was  but  a  little,  broken- 
down  shanty,  that  had  been  used  by  one 
of  the  Sutphens  as  a  cow-shed,  until  it 
was  too  far  gone  for  that,  when  he  had 
given  it  to  Dallas  for  his  help  in  harvest- 
ing. The  half  dozen  boys  of  the  village 
had  collected  and  made  a  regular  frolic  of 
helping  him  patch  it  up,  and  it  had  been 
a  sort  of  rendezvous  for  them  ever  since, 
as  Dallas  was  their  leader.  He  kept  a 
watch  for  some  of  them  now,  while  he 
put  away  his  basket  and  cases  in  a  damp 
out-shed,  and  pulled  off  his  clog  shoes, 
running  to  the  door  between-times  to 
peep  down  the  winding  paths  which 
now  began  to  shine  white  in  the  night. 
Then  he  disappeared  into  the  shed,  and 
after  a  prodigious  noise  of  splashing  in 
a  tub  of  water,  came  out  with  his  toilette 
made.  A  queer  enough  looking  figure 
when  the  best  was  done  :  no  wonder 
Laddoun  had  laughed,  for  the  clean 
flannel  shirt  had  belonged  to  a  much 
smaller  man,  and  gaped  open  at  the  neck 
and  ran  up  the  arms,  leaving  bare  the 
broad  white  throat  and  brawny  wrists  : 
the  patched  trousers,  too,  were  cut  off 
by  the  knee,  and  met  by  a  long  pair  of 
women's  gray  stockings.  But  Dallas  had 
some  odd  notions,  picked  up  in  that 
mysterious  outside  world  from  which  he 
came,  which  puzzled  the  two  or  three 
Manasquan    boys   with    whom    he   ran. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


13 


The  nails  on  his  big  burned  hands  were 
always  white  and  trimmed,  his  breath 
sweet,  the  miserable  clothes  clean. 
"  Them  be  the  litde  marks  that  belong 
to  the  gendemen  out  there,"  he  said. 
"  I  soon  learned  'em.  Just  as  you  kin 
teU  the  best  mackerel  by  the  signs  about 
the  gills." 

When  he  came  in  from  the  shed,  he 
attendvely  surveyed  himself  in  a  broken 
bit  of  looking-glass,  and  then  sat  down 
before  the  fire  to  toast  his  half-frozen 
feet,  whistling  softly  to  himself  and  beat- 
ing dme  on  his  knees.  The  boys  were 
long  in  coming,  and  he  would  go  hungry 
rather  than  eat  the  crabs  alone.  Per- 
haps, however,  this  heroic  resolve  re- 
awakened the  inward  gnawing,  for  he 
got  up  hastily  with  the  words  half  spoken, 
and  putting  his  famous  broiler  over  the 
clear  fire,  in  a  few  moments  the  green, 
spongy  things  were  fizzing  and  sputter- 
ing out  a  savory  odor  on  it.  He  stop- 
ped his  whistle  and  began  to  pace  about 
uneasily.  He  wished  the  boys  would 
come.  As  for  being  alone  in  the  woods, 
he  did  not  heed  it,  though  he  could  hear 
the  cry  of  the  panthers,  he  fancied,  night 
after  night.  But  Laddoun's  gun  hung 
on  the  wall,  and  there  was  no  such  marks- 
man on  the  beach  as  Galbraith.  It  was 
the  sea  he  feared :  the  rising  sound  of 
the  surf  thundering  up  the  shore  in  the 
silence  made  his  cheek  pale  and  a  cold 
damp  come  out  over  his  forehead.  His 
terror  (if  terror  it  was)  had  come  long 
ago,  with  his  first  sight  of  it.  Laddoun 
had  quizzed  him  about  it  then,  and  tried 
to  laugh  it  off. 

"  Most  landsmen  have  that  feeling  to 
the  sea  at  first,"  he  said.  "  It'll  soon 
wear  off,  Dallas,  with  a  boy  as  courage- 
ous as  you." 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  //,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"It's  the  voices  I  kin  hear  in  it,  Laddoun." 

Laddoun  made  no  reply.  He  never 
heard  voices  in  it,  but  he  guessed  shrewd- 
ly what  the  sickly  boy  meant,  and  never 
spoke  to  him  of  it  again. 

Galbraith  was  no  longer  sickly,  but 
the  dread  had  not  worn  away.  When  the 
latch  chcked,  and  a  face  was  thrust  in 
the  door,  his  heart  jumped  with  relief. 
Any  living  voice  would  drown  these  far- 


off  dead  ones,  if  it  were  only  litde  Tim 
Graah's.  So  he  took  his  hand,  and 
pulled  him  in,  with  a  boisterous  welcome, 
which  sent  the  blood  to  Tim's  face,  for 
he  was  but  a  little  fellow,  and  not  used  to 
nodce  from  the  big  boys. 

"  I  come  to  say  there  was  nobody 
coming,  Galbraith." 

"  Except  yourself,  little  'un.  You're 
just  in  time." 

"  Kin  I  eat  supper  with  you  ?  Kin  I 
set  the  table,  Dallas  ?"  eagerly  ;  for  the 
fact  of  a  boy  who  lived  alone,  cooked 
for  himself,  and  worked  in  roots  and 
herbs  and  beedes,  was  to  him  what  a 
fairy  story  would  have  been,  if  ever  he 
had  heard  one. 

Galbraith  nodded,  turning  and  salting 
the  crabs,  and  Tim  proceeded  to  spread 
a  white  cloth  on  the  miniature  table,  and 
put  thereon  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  butter, 
cocking  his  head  to  one  side  and  glan- 
cing about  him  at  the  whitewashed  walls, 
the  clean  boards  of  the  floor,  and  the 
little  neat  bed  in  the  corner,  with  a  sense 
of  half-ownership. 

"  Our  house  is  cleaner  than  any  in  the 
village,"  he  said  at  last.  "  You've  got  a 
lot  of  women's  gear  about  you,  Dallas. 
How  did  that  come  ?" 

"  I  was  sick  when  Laddoun  first 
fetched  me  here.  I'd  but  httle  to  do, 
that  winter,  but  creep  about  from  house 
to  house,  getting  acquainted  hke,  and 
the  women  they  made  much  of  me  and 
cured  me.  So  when  I  began  to  house- 
keep,  they  all  brought  me  a  sheet  or  a 
towel,  or  the  Hke.  I've  got  quite  a 
stock  now." 

"  iMy  mother  gave  you  that  bed," 
chattered  the  child.  "  She  cured  the 
feathers  herself.  I  hearn  her  say  she 
saw  purple  scars  of  lashes  on  your  back, 
and  she  was  bound  never  to  let  you  sleep 
hard  another  night.  Be  the  scars  there 
yet,  Dallas  ?"  in  a  half-frightened  whisper. 

But  Galbraith  did  not  answer ;  he  had 
not  heard  him,  Tim  supposed,  being 
busy  over  his  cookery.  He  turned  with 
the  crabs  on  a  dish  in  a  moment,  and 
set  them  down  with  a  loud,  forced  laugh. 
"  Bring  the  chairs,  Tim,  and  fall  to," 
going  from  door  to  window,  nervously 
closing  them. 


14 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"  Be  you  shutting  out  the  sound  of 
the  sea  ?"  laughed  Tim.  '•  You  can't  do 
it  Dallas.  It'll  toiler  and  toiler.  I've 
tried  it  in  the  woods." 

When  they  were  once  seated  at  the 
smoking  supper,  however,  Dallas  forgot 
the  sound  of  the  sea,  or  whatever  had 
pursued  him.  He  had  a  way  of  giving 
hiraseh"  up  so  childishly  to  his  tun,  and 
a  habit  too,  when  serious,  of  showing 
his  great  ignorance  through  incessant 
questions,  that  even  Tim  Graah  felt  him- 
self his  superior.  While  Dallas  set  open- 
mouthed,  listening  intently  to  the  ston.-  of 
Jane  Graah's  marriage,  Tim  regarded  him 
as  little  better  than  a  fool.  One  would 
think,  from  his  questions,  he  never  had 
lived  where  there  were  women  before. 

"  Where  will  you  live  when  you  are 
married,  Dallas  ?"  the  story  being  fin- 
ished. 

'•  Here."  The  answer  was  grave  and 
prompt  "There's  a  place  up  on  the 
nver  nobody  knows  but  me.  I'll  build 
a  house  there." 

«  Thee  has  matured  thy  plans  early," 
said  a  quiet  voice  behind  him,  and  turn- 
ing, the  boys  saw  the  Quaker  Ledwith 
in  the  open  door.  "  Thy  supper  smelled 
savor}',  Friend  Galbraith.  Thee  must 
blame  it  for  making  me  unlatch  the  door 
and  come  in  uninvited." 

Dallas  colored  %^-ith  pleasure.  "There's 
a  crab  or  two  left,"  looking  in  the  dish, 
and  then  bustling  off  for  a  clean  plate. 

The  Quaker  seated  himself,  his  thick 
arms  crossed  on  the  little  table ;  his 
square,  solid  figure  seemed  to  fill  up  the 
room,  and  Tim.  from  being  an  honored 
guest  felt  himself  dwindle  suddenly  down 
into  the  usual  superfluous  nuisance  of  a 
boy. 

Ledwith  remained  a  moment  doubtful 
after  the  dish  was  placed  before  him ;  the 
delicious  morsel  tempted  him.  Then  he 
pushed  it  from  him.  "  I  think  I  \N-ill  not 
eat  thy  bread  and  salt,  Dallas,"  he  said. 
"Thee  has  a  comfortable  little  house 
here  ;  ven.'  comfortable.  But  a  gun,  eh  ? 
One  would  not  think  thee  needed  defence 
for  thy  house  ?" 

Tim,  whose  wide-awake  gaze  never 
left  the  strangers  fece.  wondered  here, 
more  and  more,  how,  without  apparent 


!  motion,  the  stolid  light-blue  eyes  took  in 
and  noted  all  that  was  in  the  room  ;  but 
Dallas  laughed  unconcernedly,  clearing 
away  the  dishes. 

"  The  gun  is  Laddoun's." 

"  Laddoun's  ?  But  thou  art  a  keen 
marksman,  they  tell  me.  Does  thee  not 
find  thy  skill  wasted  on  this  beach  ?" 

A  trace  of  significance  crept  into  the 
last  words.  He  checked  himself  sud- 
denly, coughing  behind  his  hand,  and  sat 
looking  steadily  in  the  fire,  while  Gal- 
braith made  some  bopsh  efforts  to  en- 
tertain him,  discussing  the  schools  of 
mackerel  that  had  run  in  last  week,  and 
the  chance  of  a  nor'easter  before  No- 
vember. 

'•  Thee  has  learned  the  lingo  of  the 
beach  soon,"  looking  up  at  last.  "  Thee 
has  got  quite  a  salt)-  flavor  into  thyself 
Here's  thy  workshop  .''  So  ?"  suddenly 
facing  about  to  a  little  closet  immedi- 
ately behind  him.  Had  the  man  eyes 
in  the  back  of  his  head,  then  ?  Tim 
dragged  behind  them  with  a  pale  face, 
one  hand  gripping  Galbraith's  shirt  sleeve. 
But  Dallas  hurried  eagerly  with  a  candle 
after  the  Quaker,  who  stood  in  the  recess 
quite  motionless  for  a  moment :  in  that 
moment  however,  he  had  absorbed  every 
item  about  him,  and  classed  and  rated 
them. 

"  Shelf  of  old  books — bought  off  of 
stalls — De  Candolle,  Bartram,  Pursh — a 
botanist  eh  ?  half-worn-out  works  on 
chemistn,- — how  many  ?  old  treatises  on 
geolog}-.  These  cost  a  pretty  penny  !" 
while  Galbraith  passed  his  hand  over 
them  with  an  unconscious  caress,  brush- 
ing the  dust  from  one  or  two.  ••  Bottles 
full  of  ore  and  sand.  Boxes  of  herbs 
and  earths  ;  a  pick — shovels.  What  is 
in  that  cupboard?"  sharply,  tapping  it 
with  his  cane. 

Galbraith  opened  it  with  a  proud  flush ; 
the  Quaker  gave  a  start  of  surprise.  "A 
batten,- !  Chemical  apparatus — manufac- 
tured out  of  old  \-ials  and  pipes.  Thee 
has  a  wonderlul  cleverness,  boy,"  turn- 
ing over  the  queer  substitutes  for  retorts 
and  crucibles  with  a  smile,  and  sf'Caking 
in  a  quick,  changed  voice.  '•  I  had  a  fancy 
for  the  study  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  I 
took  to — to  making  analyses  of  a  differ- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


15 


ent  sort"  He  turned  on  Galbraith  as 
he  said  it,  measuring  him  from  his  hght 
hair  to  his  patched  shoes. 

'•  Of  a  different  sort,  and  I  am  not 
wanting  in  skill,  they  say." 

Dallas  was  silent ;  for  the  first  time, 
the  sharp-eyed  little  Tim  beside  him 
noted  that  he  began  to  share  in  his  own 
uneasy  scrutiny  of  the  stranger.  He 
drew  back  a  step,  and  jealously  locked 
the  door  of  his  closet,  keeping  a  furtive 
glance  on  Ledwith,  who  smiled  unpleas- 
antly, stroking  his  fet  chin  with  his  white 
hand. 

"  I  won't  disturb  thy  little  make-shifts, 
my  lad.  Come  out.  It's  thee  I  have 
business  with."  But  he  waited  patiently, 
with  a  real  interest  in  his  flabby  features, 
while  Dallas  carefully  replaced  some  bits 
of  ore  that  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

"  Now,  some  men  in  my  trade  would 
call  thy  hobby  tomfoolerj- ;  but  I  had  a 
leaning  that  way  once  mj-self.  as  I  told 
tliee,"  complacently.  ''  I  went  through 
college.  I  can  see  thee  is  one  of  them 
men  that  was  born  for  no  other  use  than 
to  dig  into  them  matters.  Unless — 
thee  is  stopped  in  the  way,"  with  a  leer 
and  a  wink.  He  took  the  tallow  candle 
from  Dallas,  and  inspected  him  gravely 
as  he  put  it  slowly  do^^-n  on  the  table. 
"  Kno%ving  what  I  know  of  thee,  Gal- 
braith," he  said,  deliberately,  "  thee  is  as 
curious  a  specimen  of  a  human  being  as 
ever  I  met  And  my  experience  in  them 
is  not  small." 

The  tall,  raw-boned  fellow  stood  in 
the  middle  of  tlie  floor,  the  yellow  light 
fiill  about  him,  looking  into  the  Quaker's 
face  with  a  demeanor  as  grave  and 
moderate  as  liis  own.  Even  to  Tim 
there  was  something  at  odds  and  in- 
comprehensible in  the  scarecrow  gear, 
in  the  childish  face,  with  lank,  light  hair 
brushed  behind  the  ears,  and  tlie  sane, 
grave,  dark-blue  eyes,  into  which  Led- 
with stooped  and  peered,  and  stooped 
and  peered  again,  his  own  eyes  jeering 
one  moment  and  sternly  questioning  the 
lext  but  without  eftect  Bej'ond  a  dis- 
tressea  surprise,  there  wiS  no  sign  of 
flinching  or  inward  consciousness  in  the 
lad. 

''  Well,   well !"  standing  upright  and 


rolling  his  hands  one  in  the  other  with  a 
discomfited  impatience  ;  *•  I've  hunted 
many  a  rabbit  in  my  day,  and  let  "em 
double  as  they  would,  I  had  'em  at  last 
So  tliis  is  Laddoun's  work-shop  ?  It's 
here  the  brains  are.  eh  ?  I  thought  as 
much.  Some  of  these  days  the  young 
whelp  ^vill  make  his  fortime  with  a  Lad- 
doun's Balsam  or  PiU.  and  look  for  thee 
!  to  grub  on  in  the  background  .'  Hardly. 
I  fancy  ;  the  brains  will  take  their  place 
in  tlie  end.      I  see  thy  cards.  Dallas.'' 

"You    are    talking    of  what   I    don't 

understand,"  said  Dallas,  bluntly.  %\-ith  a 

queer  quaver  in  his  voice  ;    '•  nor  you 

:  either,    I    suspect   Mr.    Led-\vith.     Lad- 

1  doun    has    apparatus    at    the    shop.      I 

j  know  nothing  about  balsams  or  pills.     I 

I  do  my  work  because  it  is  the  only  work 

I  could  ever  understand.      I'm  coimted 

uncommon  dull  at  other  things,"  simply. 

"  Thee  has  a  won-derful  cleverness," 

with  an  appro\-ing  snap  of  tlie  fingers 

and  significant  nod.  as  one  actor  might 

encourage  another  on  the  boards.     "  But 

this  chemical  business  ;  did  thee  learn 

it  tli5-self .?     Is  thee  self-taught  ?" 

"  No.  I  had  a  chance,"  shortly,  turn- 
ing away. 
j  "  Thee  don't  care  to  go  into  thy  past 
j  life,  eh  ?  That's  natiu^  Young  people 
like  better  to  look  forward  than  back," 
\s-ith  a  shrewd  smile.  "I'll  leave  you, 
boys,  now ;  good-night !  Thee  had  better 
load  thy  weapon,  Dallas ;  thee  might 
need  it  for  defence,"  with  a  chuckle. 

Galbraith  closed  the  door  after  him, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  beside  it  with 
his  back  towards  Tim  ;  when  he  turned 
and  came  to  the  fire  again,  the  look  with 
which  he  had  met  tlie  Quaker  ^\•as  gone  ; 
here  was  nothing.  Tim  saw.  but  the  boy 
who  had  played  ball  with  him.  and  cooked 
the  crabs  isnth  such  jolly  fim  half  an 
hour  ago.  But  he  moved  as  if  he  were 
tired  and  sick  ;  pulled  Tim  up  to  his 
knees,  holding  his  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders. When  the  boy  looked  up  at  him 
he  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
fire  and  were  red  and  full  of  tears. 
"  Tim  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Dallas."  gently,  putting  his 
fingers  upon  tlie  big  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 


i6 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


•'  Tim,  why  be'n't  I  like  other  boys  ?" 

Tim  looked  up  bewildered,  but  the 
grave,  anxious  countenance  was  bent  in- 
tently watching  his  own,  and  Dallas 
gave  him  no  help  with  his  answer. 

"  Like  Manasquan  boys  ?"  sharpening 
his  wits.  "Why  so  you  be,  Dallas. 
Only  for  your  house  here,  and  your 
crockery  and  bottles  ;  and,"  reflectively, 
"  then  you've  got  no  mother  or  sisters 
belonging  to  you.  AU  of  us  has  them. 
That's  a  difference." 

Dallas  made  no  reply,  but  he  suddenly 
turned  his  face  away.  He  did  not  hide 
it,  however,  from  the  sharp  eyes  that 
were  on  him.  Tim's  face  flushed  as  he 
saw  it.  "  You're  kinder  than  the  other 
big  boys,  Galbraith,"  quickly.  "  There 
be'n't  one  in  the  village  that  has  as 
many  friends  as  you.  You  be  the  only 
one  that  won't  lie  or  drink,  the  women 
says.  /  don't  heed  the  stories  they  tell. 
Nobody  heeds  them.  You  kin  look 
anybody  in  the  face,  Dallas." 

"  So  they  tell  stories,  do  they  ?"  with 
a  sad,  slow  smile.  After  a  long  pause, 
he  said,  as  if  thinking  aloud,  "  There 
never  was  such  good  men  as  here,  Tim. 
I  never  was  in  a  church  till  I  came 
here.  No.  Laddoun  took  me  in  that 
first  evening.  I  didn't  understand  old 
Father  Kimball,  but  it  was  so  quiet 
there,  under  the  hill,  with  the  trees  out- 
side.    The   hymn    too — it  was   a  tune 

that ;  well,  I'd  heard  that  tune  long 

ago.  And  coming  out,  the  men  was  so 
friendly.  When  Laddoun  told  them  my 
name,  they  nodded  in  their  sober  way 
and  spoke  very  friendly  to  me,  first  one 
and  then  another,  goin'  through  the 
woods.  I'd  often  thought,  when  I  was  a 
little  chap,  if  I  could  come  across  God, 
He'd  be  something  like  that.  Quiet 
and  friendly.  Not  asking  where  I'd 
been,  or  what  I'd  done,  or  about  things 
I'd  no  share  in  bringing  on  myself" 
The  words  came  out  slow,  unconscious, 
the  reasonable,  grave  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  fire.  "  It's  been  the  same  with  Man- 
asquan people  ever  since,"  after  a  short 
silence.  "They've  treated  me  as  if  I 
was  one  of  themselves.  There's  not  one 
of  them  has  told  me  of  the  difference 
between  us." 


Tim's  black  eyes  grew  keener.  "  What 
be  the  difference,  Dallas  ?" 

The  simple,  credulous  face  turned,  and 
the  answer  came  quickly.  He  was  talk- 
ing to  the  child  just  as  he  would  have 
reasoned  with  himself  if  he  had  been 
alone. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  there  be'n't  any. 
You  boys  will  grow  up  men  just  like 
them,  and  you  say,  Tim,  I  be  like  the 
other  boys.  But  sometimes  it  seems  as 
if  I  weren't  allowed  a  chance  like  every 
man  has.  It  weren't  by  my  will  that  I 
was  born — down  there.  It  weren't  my 
fault  that — No  matter,"  hastily  rising. 
"  I'm  doing  the  best  I  can  here.  God 
knows  I  want  to  be  a  decent,  God-fear- 
ing man  like  your  father,  or  Father  Kim- 
ball. I  never  knowed  men  like  them. 
And  if  I'm  dragged  back  now —  It  seems 
as  if  there  was  something  agin  me  in  the 
world.  I  doubt  it's  too  strong  for  me," 
lifting  his  arms,  and  letting  them  fall. 

"  You  look  strong  enough  to  fight  any- 
thing, Galbraith,"  said  Tim,  encourag- 
ingly. "Who  be  you  afraid  of ?  The 
Quaker  ?" 

Dallas  walked  to  the  window  and 
glanced  out.  "It  be  time  you  were  off, 
little  'un.  It's  after  eight.  Your  folks 
'11  be  in  bed,  and  all  Manasquan  besides. 
I'll  leave  the  light  in  the  window.  Now ! 
Make  a  run  for  it."  He  stood  in  the 
door  to  watch  the  little  chap  cross  the 
woods,  giving  him  a  cheer  to  keep  his 
spirits  up. 

The  cheer  and  the  cold  sea  air  brought 
himself  up  out  of  the  slough,  as  a  stroke  on 
the  face  will  make  a  man  feel  his  strength 
all  over  his  body.  Whatever  this  some- 
thing was  which  had  been  against  him, 
ordering  his  birth  and  childhood  in  vice 
and  poverty,  it  faded  now  out  of  sight. 

"  Strong  enough  to  fight  anything," 
Tim  had  said.  Was  that  true  ?  After 
all,  what  had  he  to  complain  of?  He 
was  a  strong,  athletic  boy,  standing  in 
the  door  of  the  home  he  had  made  for 
himself  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at 
his  bottles,  picks,  retorts,  and  laughed. 
Nothing  makes  a  man  feel  his  footing  so 
sure  in  the  world  as  to  know  his  right 
work,  and  have  it  well  gripped  in  his 
hands  for  hfe.     And  everybody  was  so 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


17 


friendly  about  him  !  From  the  day  he 
began  to  try  to  pick  off  those  old  stained 
rags  of  his  childhood,  hands  had  been 
held  out  to  help  him;  first  Laddoun, 
and  now  all  Manasquan,  down  to  little 
Tim.  What  did  it  matter  for  this  man 
Ledwith  ? 

He  and  his  mysterious  hinted  threats 
began  to  seem  unreal  as  a  nightmare  to 
Dallas,  as  he  looked  out  into  the  pleasant 
dusky  shadows  of  the  woods  and  the 
starry  blue  overhead.  It  was  all  clear 
enough  !  The  world  was  just  what  a 
man  chose  to  make  it.  There  was  no- 
thing stronger  than  himself  to  drag  him 
down.     Nothing  I 

He  drew  long  breaths  of  the  delicious 
cold  into  his  strong  lungs,  threw  back 
his  broad  chest,  feeling  every  muscle  in 
his  body  stiffen.  The  boy's  heart  was 
big  and  tender  just  then.  If  they  would 
suffer  him,  he  would  live  among  them  in 
Manasquan  until  he  died  an  old,  white- 
headed  man.  They  were  all  so  dear  to 
him ! — so  friendly !  He  wished  suddenly 
for  some  one  to  tell  all  this  to — this  rush 
of  strength  and  happiness  that  made  his 
eyes  wet  and  his  cheek  burn  hke  fire. 
Tim  was  out  of  sight,  but  poor  Dallas 
sent  out  suddenly  into  the  night  a  stir- 
ring, boj-ish  cheer.  It  came  back  loud 
and  ringing  from  the  woods,  and  again 
and  again  in  low,  cheerful  echoes  farther 
off.  He  looked  up  to  the  bright,  smiling 
sky,  wondering  if  God,  of  whom  he  had 
a  dim  notion,  was  there,  and  had  heard 
him  ;  wondering  whether  He  was  behind 
all  this  good  luck  that  had  come  to  him. 
He  stood  silent  a  moment,  thinking. 

He  went  in  and  closed  the  door,  and 
after  he  had  undressed,  pulled  the  fire- 
logs  carefully  apart,  so  as  to  leave  the 
room  in  shadow ;  then  he  stood  hesitating 
by  the  bed,  his  face  red  and  then  pale, 
and  kneeled  down  at  last,  hiding  his 
head  in  his  hands.  But  in  a  moment 
he  got  up,  all  trace  of  color  gone  from 
his  face. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  muttered.  "  I'm 
afraid,"  and  stretching  himself  in  bed, 
lay  wakeful,  staring  out  into  the  flickering 
shadows,  saying  nothing.  But  the  prayer 
in  the  boy's  dumb  heart  was  audible  to 
God  as  if  it  had  been  trumpet-tongued. 


To  help  him  with  his  chance,  to  bring 
good  luck  to  him — good  luck.  To  make 
a  man  of  him. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  YELLOW  Jersey  wagon  rolled  up  the 
road  to  the  squat  little  porch  of  the  tav- 
ern, where  half  a  dozen  leading  Mana- 
squan men  sat  smoldng  in  the  hazy, 
mellow  warmth  of  the  October  afternoon. 
The  leathern  flap  was  put  back,  and  old 
Father  Kimball,  who  preached  on  this 
beach  once  a  month,  thrust  out  his  lean, 
sagacious  face,  nodding  to  them ; 

"  How  is  it  with  you,  brethren  ?" 

There  was  quite  a  stir  and  tumult ; 
here  was  the  first  actual  beginning  of 
the  wedding  programme.  Joe  Nixon,  the 
tavern-keeper,  knocked  on  the  wall  to 
give  the  news  to  the  women  inside,  and 
then  went  up  to  the  wagon  as  spokesman 
for  the  party.  "You'd  better  come  in,  sir, 
and  take  something  hot.  No  ?  Brother 
Noanes'  folks  be  expectin'  you,  I  know  ; 
still—" 

"  You  are  going  to  have  a  lively  week 
of  it,  heh,  Nixon  ?" 

"Jest  so,  Mr.  Kimball.  Van  Zeldt's 
schooner  is  to  be  run  in  this  afternoon. 
A  heavy  cargo,  I  hear.  Jim's  venturin' 
in  pretty  deep,  lately.  A  matter  of  fifty 
dollars  in  silk  goods,  they  tell  me,  alone. 
Considerin'  his  capital,  that's  risky.  When 
them  New  York  dealers  get  a  man  to 
speculatin',  it's  all  up  with  him.  They 
soon  smeUed  out  Jim's  capital." 

Kimball  shook  his  head.  "I'll  talk  to 
Van  Zeldt.     Is  that  all  your  news  ?" 

Nixon  came  closer.  "  There's  the 
weddin'  to-morrow  evenin' ;  you've  hardly 
forgot  that  ?  Your  pocket'll  know  the 
difference  when  it  be  over,  or  I'm  mis- 
taken," winking  back  at  the  men. 

"  That's  so,"  said  Graah,  taking  out 
his  pipe.  "  There  be  nothing  close-fisted 
about  George  Laddoun.  He's  got  the 
pick  of  the  village  girls,  too." 

"You're  right  there,  William;"  and 
the  other  men  nodded,  and  pushed  down 
the  tobacco  reflectively  in  their  pipes 
"You're  right." 


i8 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"  The  day  after  the  weddin'  the  infair's 
to  be  held  at  old  Mrs.  Laddoun's,"  con- 
tinued Nixon,  hastily  gathering  up  the 
reins  of  the  conversation  again ;  "  the 
whole  village  is  bid,  young  and  old.  I 
hear  Laddoun  is  having  his  con-fection- 
ery  down  from  New  York.  I  don't  know 
what  truth  there  is  in  that." 

"  I  heern,  too,"  said  a  man  who  had  not 
yet  spoken,  "  that  Van  Zeldt  is  bringin' 
down  fireworks  as  his  weddin'  present. 
I've  read  of  them  fireworks ;  blazin'  tem- 
ples, and  armies  in  the  sky.  Such  as 
we  read  of  in  the  book  of  Revelations. 
Seems  to  me  that  be  hardly  the  work  for 
a  church-member.  It  be  mockin'  the 
Scriptures." 

"  Both  them  reports,"  said  Graah, 
severely,  "  came  from  Pete  Van  Zeldt. 
He's  a  onreliable  boy.  I'd  take  them  re- 
ports with  caution,  Mr.  Kimball,  and  not 
venture  on  repeatin'  them,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Anpvays,  we're  havin'  stirrin'  times," 
broke  in  Nixon,  impatiently.  «' Stirrin' 
times  !  Manasquan's  wakin'  up.  I  count, 
too,  confident  on  George  Laddoun.  He 
has  the  materials  of  a  great  man,  Mr. 
Kimball,  that  young  man  ;  an'  when  he's 
settled  down,  I  make  no  doubt  he'll  give 
tliis  town  a  h'ist  up  such  as  it  has  never 
had.  He's  known  in  high  quarters, 
George  is,  and  he  promises  to  put  his 
shoulder  to  the  wheel  in  the  Legislature, 
and  get  that  railroad  down  from  New 
York.  By  next  winter,  gentlemen,  we'll 
have  the  iron  horse  in  Manasquan." 

"  I've  bin  hstenin'  for  that  horse's 
neigh  a  good  many  years,"  said  Graah, 
satirically.  But  the  laugh  did  not  fol- 
low which  he  expected. 

"We  made  no  doubt  of  havin'  that 
railroad  in  my  father's  time,"  said  Nixon, 
gravely.  "  He  had  his  wires  all  laid,  as 
you  might  say,  ready  for  pullin'.  He'd 
hev  give  the  land  for  a  depot  himself: 
half  an  acre  there  by  the  cedars.  But 
he  was  took  away  suddently.  Of  pleu- 
risy." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  brethren,"  said  the 
preacher,  who  had  no  mind  to  enter  on 
til  is  interminable  railroad-field  of  talk, 
every  inch  of  which  he  knew  by  heart. 
"I'm  afraid  Sister  Noanes'  dinner  will 
be  cold." 


"  One  minute,  Mr.  Kimball !"  and 
Nixon  put  his  hand  on  the  wagon-door 
and  began  to  whisper,  glancing  back,  as 
if  for  approval,  at  the  other  men,  who 
nodded  and  put  the  word  from  one  to 
to  the  other.  The  old  man  Hstened  with 
his  brows  knit,  muttering  "  Umph"  to 
himself,  but  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"  A  very  good  thing !"  he  said  em- 
phatically, aloud.  "A  pleasant  little 
plan,  and  the  lad  deserves  it,  brethren. 
Well,  good  morning.  Wedding  weather, 
eh  ?"  and  the  yellow  wagon  roUed  leisure- 
ly away. 

Back  from  the  road,  half  hidden  by 
Graah's  cedar  swamp,  was  the  old  Byrne 
place  ;  nothing  but  a  strip  of  pasturage 
and  bit  of  pond,  beside  the  house.  Lad- 
doun would  come  into  possession  of  it  to- 
morrow in  right  of  his  wife.  Laddoun 
had  added  one  hundred  acres  to  another 
since  he  left  college,  until  he  was  one  of 
the  largest  landholders  in  the  county. 

"  Chemicals,  I  suppose,"  said  old  Mr. 
Kimball,  with  a  puzzled  knot  in  his  fore- 
head. "  It's  a  business  I  don't  under- 
stand. But  it  pays  him  well."  He  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud  in 
his  continual,  long,  solitary  journeys.  He 
leaned  fonvard  to  see  if  the  Byrne  house 
was  open,  and  saw  a  blue  rift  of  smoke 
coming  from  the  chimney,  and  at  the 
same  time  Dallas  Galbraith  going  into 
the  woods  through  the  stubble-fieid. 
"  Hollo,  Dallas  !     Here  !"  he  shouted. 

Father  Kimball  had  an  odd  liking  for 
the  boy.  He  was  more  pleased  to  meet 
him  than  he  would  have  been  anybody 
in  Manasquan.  He  had  taken  his  part 
strongly  years  ago,  when  the  men  at 
Nixon's  tavern  began  to  hint  at  queer 
suspicions  about  the  strange  boy  that 
Laddoun  had  brought  among  them. 

"  Don't  I  know  a  good  tree  when  I 
see  it  ?"  he  said,  vehemently.  "  There's 
a  hundred  signs  beside  the  Scripture  one 
of  fruit.  Clean  bark,  stout  limbs,  the 
leaves  with  a  healthy  rustle  in  them. 
Jest  so  with  human  nature.  The  boy's  a 
strong,  manly  fellow,  sound  to  the  core." 
He  liked  to  watch  the  lad  wrestle  or 
swim,  as  he  grew  older,  finding  him 
difterent  from  the  drowsy  Jerseymen 
about  him — full  of  vitality,  zealous,  terri- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


19 


bly  in  earnest  in  work  or  fun :  took 
pleasure  in  contrasting  their  nasal  drawl 
with  his  free,  sonorous  voice.  Galbraith's 
tones,  by  the  way,  were  remarkable  in 
their  sweep  and  sweetness  of  intonation : 
one  reason  why  Manasquan  people  were 
always  thoroughly  awake  when  near  him, 
and,  perhaps,  why  they  were  attracted  to 
him.  The  old  man  went  on  calling  to  him 
as  he  crossed  the  field,  chaffing  him,  and 
Dallas  shouted  back  answers  to  his  jokes  ; 
not  very  witty,  perhaps,  on  either  side, 
but  enough  to  make  them  both  laugh, 
being  in  the  humor  for  it. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  holi- 
day rig  ?"  scanning  Galbraith's  suit  of 
blue  flannel,  cut  in  a  half-sailor  fashion. 
"  A  present  from  Laddoun,  eh  ?" 

<■'  No.  I  bought  it  with  my  own  money  ; 
Elizabeth  Byrne  planned  and  made  it," 
with  a  complacent  glance  downwards.  "  I 
rather  like  my  looks  in  it.  I  am  going 
to  the  house  now.     She's  there." 

"  It  is  well  for  you  that  Laddoun's 
wife  is  what  she  is,  Dallas.  You'll  be 
thrown  into  the  machinery  of  that  house 
a  good  deal,  and  George — is  uncertain. 
But  Lizzy — well,  Lizzy's  temper  is  like 
the  honey  off  of  buckwheat ;  it's  a  rough 
flavor,  but  it's  sweet  and  warranted  to 
keep.  She's  the  surest  friend  you've 
got,  Dallas.  And  you  have  more  than 
you  know,  my  lad,"  laughing  significantly 
as  he  nodded  and  drove  oif. 

"  I  know  what  Lizzy  is,"  said  Dallas 
to  himself.  He  had  a  fancy  that  to-mor- 
row would  be  the  beginning  of  a  new 
and  the  best  chapter  in  his  life.  George 
■was  uncertain  in  temper,  and  he  was 
necessarily  a  good  deal  in  his  power.  But 
Lizzy —  But  she  would  be  waiting  in  the 
door  for  him,  and  he  was  half  an  hour 
late  ;  he  started  at  a  full  run  across  the 
stubble-field  to  the  woods  which  lay  be- 
tween him  and  the  house. 

Father  Kimball  had  said  it  was  wed- 
ding weather ;  and  Elizabeth  had  the 
same  fancy  when  she  came  to  the  door 
to  look  after  Dallas,  and  felt  as  if  she  had 
stepped  into  a  bath  of  warm,  sweet-scent- 
ed sunshine.  She  had  been  too  busy  all 
day  to  look  out,  but  now  her  house  was 
in  order  ;  she  had  bathed  and  put  on  her 
stifl,  new  white  dress,  and  smoothed  her 


brown  hair  till  it  was  like  shiny  satin 
folded  about  her  head.  George  Lad- 
doun would  pull  it  down,  when  ne  came, 
most  likely.  There  was  a  certain  quiet 
positivism  in  her  round,  solid  little  per- 
son, in  the  very  bow  of  her  ribbons,  that 
irritated  him  through  all  of  his  passion- 
ate love.  "  It's  a  hint  of  backbone,  that 
don't  belong  to  your  nature,  Lizzy,"  he 
said.  "  What  does  a  woman  want  with 
backbone  ?" 

She  was  very  anxious  about  this  defect 
of  hers,  as  Dallas  found  out ;  for  he  was 
the  only  one  to  whom  she  spoke  of  it. 
"It  is  the  habit  of  teaching  so  long  that 
has  made  me  dogmatic,"  she  said,  and 
made  constant  humble  efforts  to  cure 
herself  of  it,  for  George's  pleasure. 

She  had  been  teaching  in  the  woods 
school-house  a  good  many  years  :  sewing 
between  times,  boarding  with  one  old 
farmers  wife  and  another.  Meantime  the 
little  brown  Byrne  house  and  the  land 
lay  unoccupied,  just  as  her  father  left 
them.  But  when  she  found  she  was 
going  to  marry  George  Laddoun  ("people 
said,  at  first,  Jim  'Van  Zeldt,  but  Lizzy 
knew  better),  she  began  to  use  the  little 
store  of  money  she  had  laid  by  to  repair 
the  old  homestead,  and  make  it  fit  for 
his  home.  If  it  had  been  a  palace,  she 
thought,  it  would  better  have  suited  that 
princely  young  fellow.  Dallas  had  helped 
her  tack  carpets,  put  hinges  on  doors, 
weed  the  garden  beds,  hang  the  calico 
curtains.  She  forgot  that  he  was  not  a 
woman,  sometimes,  and  talked  to  him  as 
if  he  had  been.  The  consequence  was, 
that  Galbraith  often  wished  that  Lad- 
doun knew  the  girl  as  well  as  he  cid, 
and  so  would  be  more  just  to  her  and 
tender. 

She  had  an  hour  or  two  for  him  now, 
before  George  came.  She  had  a  bottle 
of  wine  to  give  her  lover,  but  she  and 
Dallas  were  going  to  have  a  cozy  cup  of 
tea  together.  She  had  a  surprise  for 
him.  One  room,  and  that  the  one  with 
the  widest  outlook  from  the  windows  and 
the  tightest-fitting  window-frames  (which 
means  much  on  this  windy  coast),  she 
had  set  apart  for  the  lonely  boy.  "  I'll 
not  have  him  sleeping  like  a  wild  beast 
in  the  woods  any  longer,"  she  told  Lad- 


20 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


doun.  "  Let  him  keep  his  hut  for  a 
work-shop.  But  Dallas  shall  live  with 
me." 

To  which  George  assented  eagerly. 
Elizabeth  never  pleased  him  so  much  as 
when  she  gave  a  little  evidence  of  Irish 
extravagance  or  hospitality.  The  doors 
of  his  own  house  and  heart  were  open  as 
a  market-place  ;  the  more  that  tramped 
through  them,  the  better;  but  the  key 
of  Lizzy's  was  turned  ;  and  when  anybody 
asked  for  a  place  at  her  table  or  in  her 
friendship,  she  scanned  them  as  cau- 
tiously from  behind  her  bars  as  if  it  were 
a  quiet  convent  into  which  they  wanted 
to  enter.  So  all  the  village  heard  of  the 
reserved  room  for  Galbraith  with  surprise, 
and  said,  with  Father  Kimball,  that  the 
boy  had  made  his  best  friend  now. 

"  Lizzy  be  a  queer  one  ;  she  be  differ- 
ent from  Laddoun.  Her  likings  and 
dislikings  come  to  be  a  part  of  herself, 
like  snails  on  a  rock,"  old  Graah  said. 

Everybody  knew  of  the  room  but  Dal- 
las himself;  it  had  been  the  talk  of  the 
village  that  day  that  she  was  going  to 
surprise  him  with  it,  and  they  all,  for 
their  own  purposes,  kept  the  secret.  He 
fancied,  however,  as  he  went  by  the  farm- 
houses on  his  way,  that  there  was  a  pe- 
culiar twinkle  in  the  women's  faces  as 
tliey  called  to  him,  an  unusual  fun  and 
cheerfulness,  and  that  their  voices  never 
had  sounded  so  hearty  and  kind.  The 
men  at  Nixon's,  too,  as  he  passed,  joking 
about  his  clothes,  did  it  with  an  under- 
current of  meaning  in  their  lazy  talk  that 
touched  him,  he  did  not  know  why.  There 
was  not  one  of  them  to  whom  he  had  not 
tried  to  be  useful  in  his  small  way,  in 
their  thronged  fishing-times,  or  in  the 
sickness  last  year,  when  one  or  two  were 
down  in  every  house.  So,  when  they 
wished  him  good  luck,  and  threw  an  old 
shoe  after  him,  he  thought  they  had,  per- 
haps, been  talking  of  him,  and  found  how 
much  they  all  were  his  friends. 

"And  so  they  are,"  said  Dallas,  shjdng 
stones  vehemently  into  the  pond,  with  a 
choking  in  his  throat.  "  There's  not  a 
man  or  woman  in  Manasquan  that  isn't 
my  friend.  I  think  some  one  must  always 
have  managed  my  luck  for  me,"  his  face 
grave,  but  not  daring  to  look  up. 


Now  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  this  : 
and  it  was,  to  make  no  mystery  of  the 
thing,  the  secret  of  Nixon's  whisper  to 
Father  Kimball.  Manasquan  people 
might,  as  George  Laddoun  asserted,  be 
over-boastful,  and  rate  their  village  too 
highly,  but  they  were  clannish,  swore  by 
each  other  to  the  exclusion  of  the  world, 
and  were  fond,  too,  in  a  simple,  generous 
way,  of  humoring  their  favorites,  of  little 
fetes,  processions  and  the  like.  So  when 
it  was  noised  about  that  Lizzy  had  set 
apart  a  room  for  Galbraith,  and  meant  to 
give  a  home  to  the  lad,  it  was  quite  in 
keeping  with  their  habits  that  there 
should  be  a  general  contribution  in  order 
to  make  the  room  comfortable  and  snug, 
and  that  they  should  make  a  little  glori- 
fication of  the  matter  by  keeping  it  quiet 
until  Lizzy  should  break  it  to  him.  So 
they  all  watched  the  tall,  lank  boy,  in  his 
holiday  suit,  making  his  way  through 
the  woods,  with  a  genial,  inward  satis- 
faction. A  deserving,  good  creature, 
whom  the  world  had  abused  until  Mana- 
squan was  shrewd  enough  to  find  out  his 
merit. 

The  air  was  sun-lit  and  sweet-scented, 
as  we  said ;  the  woods  through  which  he 
walked  were  silent  and  motionless  as 
though  they  had  stood  in  it  unmoved  for 
centuries.  It  was  the  edge  of  a  great 
and  almost  unbroken  wilderness  that  he 
skirted,  gigantic  pines,  -with  bare,  hoary 
trunks,  rising  into  a  thick  sheet  of  foliage 
above.  There  had  been  times  (when  the 
world  turned  a  harsher  face  on  Dallas 
than  to-day)  when  he  had  thought  this 
forest  one  of  the  places  where  Death  him- 
self hid,  so  monstrous  were  the  elfish 
growths  that  matted  every  limb,  of  un- 
natural mosses,  and  lichens  of  diseased 
ajd  feverish  hues.  The  more  dead  the 
bough  was,  the  more  vivid  and  strong 
was  the  parasite  that  fed  on  it. 

But  to-day  his  unwholesome  fancy  was 
forgotten,  and  Galbraith  suddenly  stopped 
his  crunching  step  over  the  crisp  needles 
of  the  pines,  and  drew  his  breath  with 
quick  surprise  and  wonder  at  the  infinite 
beauty  over  which  the  sunshine  flickered 
through  the  green,  arching  dome  over- 
head. The  delicate  Southern  moss  hung 
in  traihng  webs  of  palest  grayish  greer 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


from  ever}'  bough  and  bit  of  rough  bark ; 
the  dead  trees  were  massed  with  a  fila- 
gree covering  of  purple,  scarlet,  of  silver 
fretted  with  black ;  the  wax-like  leaves  of 
the  pipsissiwa  starred  the  path  ;  on  every 
side  the  crimson  fruit  of  the  cactus 
opened  its  heated  heart  to  the  late  warmth. 
Dallas  broke  off"  a  bough  which  was  one 
wonderful  flowering  in  violet  and  green, 
crimped  and  curled  leaves  folded  one 
above  the  other,  but  it  crumbled  in  his 
hand — a  lump  of  slimy,  rotten  wood. 

Who  was  it  that  had  so  carefully  turned 
all  this  death  into  beauty  ?  Even  where 
a  bunch  of  mushrooms  thrust  up  their 
heads,  the  brown  needles  thatched  them 
like  a  miniature  roof,  and  a  ray  of  sun- 
light, striking  obliquely  through  their 
transparent  stalks,  glorified  them  into 
clear  amber  pillars  for  the  fairy  temple. 
Dallas  walked  on  more  slowly.  A  gi-eat 
quiet  came  into  his  mind,  up  through  all 
its  boyish  jumble  of  ideas  about  fishing, 
and  roots,  and  the  work  he  wanted  to  do 
for  Elizabeth.  He —  Whoever  it  was  that 
had  brought  all  this  good  out  of  rotten- 
ness and  decay,  was  it  He  that  had 
brought  him  out  of  that  miserable  old 
time  into  this  village  ?     Was  it  ? 

The  lad's  eyes  grew  curiously  steady 
and  clear.  The  wind  hinted  a  low,  mys- 
terious music  in  the  pines,  the  sea,  with 
warm,  violet  waves,  caressed  the  shore, 
but  no  voices  from  old,  miserable  years 
moaned  in  it. 

Some  of  us  need  to  be  lashed  with 
defeat  before  we  find  out  the  real  strength 
of  the  man  within  us,  but  some  of  us,  like 
Dallas  to-day,  have  to  feel  friendly  hands 
touch  us,  and  the  world's  seldom-seen, 
real,  just,  beautiful  face  clear  shining  into 
our  souls.  Then  we  see  what  we  were 
meant  to  do  in  this  life,  and  resolve  to 
begin  at  once  to  build  with  gold  instead 
of  stubble. 

Lizzy,  when  she  saw  Dallas  coming 
up  the  path,  went  down  to  meet  him, 
and  looked  curiously  at  him.  He  had 
been  at  work  with  her  all  morning,  in 
high  good-humor,  quizzing  her  about  her 
locked  Blue  Beard's  chamber,  whistling, 
and  lilting  out  sailors'  songs  up  stairs 
and  down.  He  was  quiet  and  grave 
now,  as  if  he  had  come  up  out  of  church. 


"No  one  came  up  with  you,  Dallas?" 

"  No."  He  thought  it  neglectful  that 
George  was  not  with  his  bride  this  last 
evening,  so  affected  not  to  understand 
her  anxious  question. 

They  sat  down  on  the  low  steps  of  the 
porch,  but  she  could  keep  quiet  but  a 
little  while.  "  Dallas,  where  is  Laddoun  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Lizzy." 

"  That  stranger,  Ledwith,  has  been  fol- 
lowing him  about  all  day.  I  am  afraid 
of  him,"  uneasily  getting  up.  "  He  has 
a  fish's  eye,  dead  and  cold.  I  wanted 
George.  I  have  something  to  tell  you, 
Dallas,"  blushing  and  smiling,  "  and  he 
could  have  put  it  into  better  words  than 
L  George  is  a  good  speaker,  I  think?" 
timidly. 

"That  he  is,"  heartily.  "  It's  a  great 
thing  to  have  talent,  like  Laddoun.  If 
one  wants  to  do  anything  in  the  world,  I 
mean.  It's  just  like  a  heavy  man  walk- 
ing in  the  sand ;  no  matter  where  he  goes, 
the  print  is  there,  deep.     Now  I — " 

"  You  ?  When  it  comes  to  drawing, 
Dallas,  I  think  you  have  a  true  genius," 
eagerly ;  and  she  went  into  the  room  and 
stopped  before  a  miserable  picture  of  a 
man's  head,  purporting  to  be  Laddoun's, 
wherein  the  outlines  were  all  false  and 
the  features  daubed  with  colors.  Dallas 
looked  at  it  complacently,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

"  Yes.  If  I  have  any  talent,  it  is  for 
painting,  I  think." 

"And  your  experiments — your  plans  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  my  work,"  indifferently ; 
"that  all  comes  natural  to  me.  If  you'd 
shut  me  up  in  jail,  I'd  find  the  way  to 
those  jobs  all  the  same.  But  my  paint- 
ing is  a  different  thing." 

She  listened  attentively.  She  wanted 
him  to  feel  that  he  was  cared  for  in 
every  trifle  to-night.  She  wanted  him 
to  feel  no  lack  of  mother  and  sister  in  at 
least  this  one  hour  of  his  life.  She 
guessed  the  starved,  solitary  childhood 
he  had  led,  and  thought  of  the  scars  and 
lashes  on  the  lean  back  underneath  his 
new  clothes — of  the  wounds  which  even 
now  sometimes  opened  and  bled  ;  and 
her  voice  trembled  a  little  when  she  told 
him  to  come  with  her  and  see  what  she 
had  hid  in  the  Blue  Beard's  chamber. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"It  is  someth'ng  which  will  help  you 
to  paint  better  ah  your  life,"  she  said. 
She  stopped  at  the  hall-door  to  call  to 
George's  mother — a  little,  withered  old 
body  in  a  clean,  brown  calico  dress,  her 
gray  hair  knotted  back  without  a  cap — 
who  was  putting  some  chickens  in  the 
coop.  She  came  up  with  a  significant 
smile  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  Lizzy,  I'll  not  go  in  with  you," 
whispering  in  her  weak,  pleasant  little 
quaver  of  a  voice.  "  The  lad's  more  of 
a  stranger  to  me  than  to  you,  and  it 
might  damp  his  pleasure.  He's  had 
hard  roughing  it  in  the  world,  I'm  afraid, 
poor  child  !"  and  she  stood  nodding  and 
smiling  to  them  as  they  went  over  to  the 
low,  painted  pine  door,  and  after  tliey 
had  gone  in,  nodded  and  smiled  to  her 
diickens,  talking  about  it  to  herself. 

Now  they  were  in  the  room,  Lizzy 
had  meant  to  make  the  matter  very  plain 
to  Dallas,  but  she  forgot  all  that  she  had 
thought  to  say.  "  We  wanted  our  best 
friend  to  come  and  live  with  us,"  she 
stammered  out,  the  tears  coming  to  her 
eyes  ;  "  and  that  is  you,  Dallas.  And 
the  people  in  the  village  wished  you  to 
know  who  were  your  friends,  and  they 
sent  you  these  tokens — for — for  your 
home.     Their  names  are  on  them." 

When  he  turned,  pale  and  astonished, 
she  had  slipped  past  him  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  She  wanted  him  to 
be  alone,  to  go  over  the  little  gifts  with 
which  the  room  was  filled,  from  the  rag- 
carpet,  which  only  Mrs.  Laddoun  could 
weave,  to  the  fire-irons  from  poor  Becker, 
the  smith.  She  wanted  him  to  find  that 
there  was  no  name  omitted,  no  man  or 
woman  in  the  village  who  did  not  count 
him  as  a  friend.  When  she  went  in 
again,  which  she  did  not  do  for  a  long 
time,  the  lad  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  her,  looking  in  the  fire  ;  and  as  she 
came  up  to  him,  she  saw  how  colorless 
he  was.  He  talked  but  little  at  any 
time,  and  when  he  was  deeply  moved 
was  dumb,  as  now.  Even  Lizzy's  sensi- 
ble eyes  grew  dim  when  she  looked  at 
him. 

"  I  did  not  think  the  trifles  would 
matter  so  much  to  you,  Dallas,"  touching 
his  arm  gently. 


He  did  not  answer  her  for  a  minute, 
and  then  said,  "You  don't  know  how 
different  it  was  with  me  back  yonder.  I 
wasn't  hke  other  boys."  She  turned 
her  head  quickly  away,  fearing  to  pry 
into  his  secret. 

"It  was  not  I  who  thought  of  this," 
she  said,  with  a  httle  heat  on  her  face, 
"nor  Laddoun.  It  was  Jim  Van  Zeldt. 
Last  summer,  after  the  sickness,  he  said 
the  village  owed  you  some  sign  of  thanks. 
Jim's  heart's  in  the  right  place,"  speak- 
ing with  an  effort.  Lizzy  was  always 
eager  to  do  justice  to  the  man  whose 
love  she  had  put  from  her. 

She  saw  that  Galbraith  would  not 
talk  of  it,  even  to  her.  So  she  turned 
and  went  into  the  little  dining-room, 
where  the  table  was  set  for  supper.  He 
came  out  presently,  and  followed  her 
about  in  a  dog-like  way,  trying  to  help 
her,  his  face  still  and  bright. 

"He  said  hardlyaword,"  old  Mrs.  Lad- 
doun said  afterwards,  "but  he  looked  as 
if  a  heart  of  stone  had  been  taken  from 
him,  and  a  heart  of  flesh  put  in  him  that 
night." 

The  evening  came  on  quickly.  Lizzy 
closed  the  doors  and  Ht  the  lamp,  to 
shut  out  the  twilight  and  the  rising  sound 
of  the  tide.  Laddoun  had  not  come. 
His  mother,  who  had  nobody  else  to 
care  for,  and  was  as  nervous  about  the 
man  as  when  he  had  been  a  tottering 
baby,  put  on  her  cloak  and  went  in 
search  of  him.  Lizzy  laughed  at  her, 
tying  her  own  woollen  cap  on  her  head  ; 
but  after  another  hour  had  passed,  she 
grew  more  silent  and  moved  about  un- 
easily, glancing  out  of  the  window,  her 
face  paler.  Laddoun  was  not  wont  to 
neglect  her,  and  this  was  the  eve  of 
their  wedding. 

An  hour  or  two  before  they  had 
heard  loud  voices  down  on  the  beach, 
and  had  seen  two  or  three  men  lounging 
at  intervals  down  through  the  marshes  : 
they  knew  Van  Zeldt's  schooner  was  in. 

"  But  even  if  George  had  gone  to 
help  unload  her,"  she  said  anxiously  to 
Galbraith,  "they  have  stopped  work 
now.  The  Graahs  passed  by  half  an 
hour  ago  back  to  the  house  ;  and  there 
are  two  of  the  wreckers,"  as  a  couple  of 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


men  came  across  the  stubble-held.  She 
noticed  that  they  walked  close  to  the 
fence,  looking  furtively  at  the  house, 
talking  eagerly  to  each  other.  After  a 
while,  Nixon  and  his  son  came  up  from 
tlie  beach,  directly  toward  her  gate, 
stopped  there,  and  debated  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  suddenly,  and  went  off 
together.  Lizzy  stood  at  the  door, 
watcliing  the  two  dark  figures  disappear 
in  the  mist  over  the  marsh :  the  wind 
was  rising,  and  came  with  shrill,  fore- 
boding cries  through  the  pines  :  the  sea 
began  to  mutter  and  moan  with  dreary  and 
uncertain  meaning.  Lizzy  tried  to  laugh 
again  at  her  vague  dread  of  coming  evil, 
but  told  Dallas  of  it,  frankly. 

'■It  is  as  if  some  one  told  me  George 
Laddoun  never  would  come  to  me  again," 
she  said.  "  Go  and  look  for  him,  Dallas. 
I  cannot  help  being  foolish  and  weak 
to-night." 

Galbraith  put  on  his  cap  with  a  cheery 
laugh.  She  thought  she  never  had  seen 
a  stronger,  lighter-hearted  look  than  that 
in  the  boy's  eyes.  "I'll  send  him  to 
to  you  in  five  minutes,"  he  said. 

"  Come  back  again,  Dallas,"  detaining 
him.  "  This  is  your  home  now,  remem- 
ber." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Home  !"  turning  to 
look  back  from  the  edge  of  the  woods  at 
tlae  open  door  and  his  room  beyond, 
which  his  firiends  had  made  ready  for  him. 

An  hour  passed,  and  another :  the 
supper  was  cold,  and  Lizzy  had  let  the 
fire  die  out  on  the  hearth.  She  had 
gone  out,  and  stood  leaning  over  the  gate. 
It  was  some  joke  they  meant  to  play  her, 
she  thought.  It  was  impossible  that 
misfortune  could  come  to  her  on  her 
wedding  eve  !  But  she  scarcely  knew 
that  the  night  had  fallen — a  wide,  starless, 
melancholy  night — and  that  the  chilly  salt 
gusts  of  \vind  from  the  marshes  had  wet 
her  face  and  clothes.  The  tide  was 
coming  up  with  a  subdued  roar  now,  and 


one  storm-cloud  after  another  was  slowly 
sweeping  across  the  sea-horizon. 

Presently,  at  an  hour  long  after  the 
time  when  the  village  was  ordinarily 
asleep,  she  heard  a  step  close  at  hand, 
and  Jim  Van  Zeldt  came  up  and  stood 
beside  her.  She  tried  to  smile  careless- 
ly. She  would  not  ask  her  old  lover  for 
news  of  George  Laddoun. 

But  he  did  not  give  her  time.  He 
was  looking  past  her  into  the  cozy  little 
house  where  the  light  was  stiU  burning. 

"  So  that  is  your  home  ?"  he  said.  Jim 
had  quiet,  womanish  ways,  always.  When 
they  were  children  and  "promised"  to 
each  other,  he  would  have  suffered  her 
to  put  her  foot  on  his  neck  any  day.  So, 
finding  Laddoun  more  manly,  she  thought, 
she  had  flung  Jim  and  his  love  off  as  she 
would  a  worn-out  shoe. 

"  Yes,  that  is  to  be  my  home,"  in  a 
controlled  voice.  "  Will  you  come  into  it, 
Jim  ?" 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  In  a 
minute  he  put  his  hand  on  hers  where  it 
lay  on  the  gate.  It  was  the  first  time 
for  many  years,  and  she  noticed  that  his 
fingers  were  cold  and  clammy.  "  I  came 
to  bring  you  some  bad  news,  Lizzy.  But 
I  never  hurt  you  in  my  life,  and,  please 
God,  I  never  will.  I  can't  tell  her,  Mr. 
Kimball." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  said,  with  a  hot 
mouth,  to  the  old  preacher,  who  had  come 
up  on  the  other  side. 

He  went  straight  to  the  point,  having 
no  faith  in  the  sham  of  brealdng  bad 
news  :  "  There  was  a  great  crime  com- 
mitted years  ago  in  New  York,  my  child : 
some  say  forgery,  and  others  murder  ; 
and  they  have  traced  the  men  who  did  it 
to  this  beach.  The  pretended  Quaker, 
Ledwith,  was  a  detective.  His  warrant 
to  arrest  them  came  in  Van  Zeldt' s 
schooner  to-night." 

"  Who  are  the  men  ?" 

"  George  Laddoun,  Lizzy,  and  Dallas 
Galbraith." 


PART     II. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

GALBRAITH  made  a  short  cut 
through  the  woods  down  to  the 
beach,  where  he  thought  to  find  Lad- 
doun.  He  went  shnging  along  with 
nervous  strides,  making  great  leaps  now 
and  then,  and  shouting  shrilly  hke  a 
madman  after  them.  He  was  but  a  boy, 
and  the  excitement  and  triumph  of  the 
night  must  find  vent  somehow.  He 
wanted  Laddoun.  He  would  like  to 
drag  the  old  fellow  up  into  his  room,  and 
watch  his  face  redden  and  eyes  shine  over 
every  little  gift  there.  It  was  the  very 
thing  to  touch  George  to  the  quick,  and 
bring  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  wanted 
the  whole  village  to  come  and  share  in 
tlie  happiness  it  had  given  him — to  see 
how  grateful  he  was.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  full  of  hot  words,  as  if  he  must  break 
his  silence  and  tell  them  his  story,  to  force 
them  to  care  for  him  as  he  did  for  them. 

Yet  when  he  saw  two  of  the  men  who 
nad  been  kindest  to  him  coming  through 
the  woods,  he  hid  behind  a  thicket,  and 
let  them  pass.  That  old  nightmare  of 
bashfulness  throttled  him,  as  it  is  apt  to 
do  boys  of  the  best  blood,  and  his  throat 
choked,  his  legs  and  arms  grew  self-con- 
scious and  heavy,  and  his  tongue  stiff. 

He   forgot    his   errand   and    George 


Laddoun,  and  walked  more  slowly.  It 
was  then,  in  this  swell  of  his  great  joy 
and  content,  that  the  thought  which  had 
been  tugging  at  his  heart  all  day  pressed 
up  barely  into  words. 

"  If — if  my  mother  could  see  my 
room !"  he  whispered,  stopping  quite 
still  and  looking  down.  As  he  went  on 
after  that,  scrambling  over  the  bay- 
bushes,  and  climbing  fences,  he  said  it 
to  himself  more  than  once — 

"  Mother  f 

He  seemed  to  be  growing  more  fit  to 
say  it  since  the  villagers  had  given  him 
this  credential.  The  truth  was,  this  was 
the  thought  that  had  made  him  dumb 
and  pale  when  Lizzy  first  showed  him 
the  room.  In  a  moment  he  saw  a  little 
fresh-looking  woman  coming  into  it, 
with  her  gray,  watchful  eyes  fixed  ap- 
provingly on  him.  He  could  see  even 
the  dress  she  wore — the  pale  brown  silk, 
the  white  lace,  the  pearl  ring  on  her 
small  hand  ;  things  which  at  other  times 
set  her  far  off  from  him,  with  an  impass- 
able gulf  between  them.  But  this  room 
and  its  meaning  would  have  made  her 
approve  him.  He  thought  he  had  taken 
a  great  step  nearer  her  to-night.  No 
wonder  even  old  Mrs.  Laddoun  perceived 
that  he  looked  as  if  a  heart  of  flesh  had 
been  given  him  instead  of  one  of  stone. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


25 


Galbraith  was  like  all  other  boys,  ex- 
cept in  this :  that  the  incentives  which 
first  hasten  them  on  into  manhood,  and 
give  them  fibre  and  weight,  were  all  cen- 
tred tor  him  in  that  quiet  little  woman 
whom  he  had  left  years  ago.  If  he  could 
shift — be  done  with  his  ragged  clothes, 
his  lank,  awkward  body  and  vulgar  ways, 
if  God  or  his  own  effort — anything — 
would  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  he  could 
go  back  to  her.  Love,  money,  fame, 
were  but  words  to  him.  She  and  the 
world  in  which  she  lived  were  reali- 
ties. 

He  thought,  to-night,  he  was  beginning 
to  go  back  to  her. 

Just  as  Dallas  came  out  of  the  woods 
into  the  salt  grass,  two  men  passed  him. 
The  night  was  dark,  and  his  steps  were 
deadened  in  the  sand :  they  did  not  see 
him,  therefore. 

"  Cradock,"  said  the  smith,  Becker, 
"has  been  lying  in  hiding  in  the  Qua- 
kers room  since  yesterday.  It  was 
tliought  he  might  be  needed." 

Now  this  brought  Galbraith  to  a  sud- 
den standstill.  Cradock  was  the  sheriff" 
of  the  county :  he  had  visited  Mana- 
squan  once,  years  ago,  and  since  then 
had  served  as  a  bugbear  to  frighten  chil- 
dren to  sleep.  His  coming  was  the  por- 
tent of  some  great  calamity  ;  and  Dallas, 
who  had  shied  many  a  stone  at  police- 
men in  New  York,  had  so  fallen  into 
Manasquan  ways  that  he  clapped  his 
hands  with  a  sudden  terror  when  he 
heard  of  it. 

"  What  did  he  hide  for  ?"  asked  the 
other  man,  who  proved  to  be  Nixon. 

"  Laddoun  would  have  had  warning, 
you  see." 

"  George  Laddoun  be  no  more  guilty 
than  I,"  said  Nixon,  doggedly.  "  I 
wonder  at  you,  Becker.  It  be  easy  for 
strangers  to  send  a  dog  down  hill  when 
his  friends  give  him  a  kick." 

"  Where  be  he  gone  now,  then  ?"  tri- 
umphantly. "  When  Cradock  came  down 
with  the  New  York  man  on  the  beach, 
as  the  schooner  ran  in,  Laddoun  was 
there.  In  his  new  rig,  to  go  up  to'  Liz- 
zy's. When  he  saw  them  together,  he 
turned  off"  up  the  marsh,  they  do  say, 
pale  as  a  corpse.     I  always  misdoubted 


Laddoun.  Where  did  he  get  the  money 
to  buy  the  cranberry  bog  yonder  ?" 

The  men  passed  on  into  the  woods. 
Dallas  did  not  stop  them,  asked  no 
questions  ;  whatever  their  news  might 
portend  to  him — whether  it  brought 
some  old  crime  of  his  own  or  danger 
for  Laddoun  out  of  that  mysterious  old 
time,  it  did  not  stun  him  as  it  had  done 
George.  He  had  slunk  through  this 
long  grass  an  hour  or  two  ago,  as  though 
his  brain  and  limbs  were  palsied  ;  but 
Dallas  ran  swift  as  a  hound,  and  bent 
half  double,  on  the  same  path  as  soon  as 
the  men  were  out  of  hearing.  The  boy 
had  the  soldier-quality  in  him  which  the 
man  lacked,  and  sprang  naturally  to  arms 
on  the  first  hint  of  danger,  alert  and  de- 
fiant. His  guilt  or  innocence  was  a 
secondary  matter. 

There  was  no  indecision  in  his  course. 
He  knew  Laddoun's  hiding-place.  There 
is  a  river,  or  an  arm  of  the  sea,  which 
breaks  into  this  county  for  about  six 
miles — a  broad,  deep  backwater,  rather 
than  stream.  Coming  to  its  edge,  Dal- 
las ran  groping  along  until  he  Ibund  a 
long,  narrow-pointed  tub  (a  sneak-boat, 
as  the  fishermen  call  them,  used  for 
duck-shooting),  pushed  it  off"  the  sand, 
shut  himself  up  in  it,  and,  with  a  vigor- 
ous thrust  or  two,  headed  rapidly  up- 
stream. The  water,  curdled  with  the 
rising  tide,  stretched  up  between  the 
rolling  dark  hills  on  either  side,  a  sheet 
of  glittering,  steely  blue. 

A  short,  steady  pull  brought  him  to 
the  point  where  the  white,  sandy  road 
to  the  post-office  struck  through  the 
pines  :  one  or  two  crab-cribs  were  an- 
chored there,  and  on  the  beach  a  seine- 
reel  thrust  out  its  shadowy,  empty  arms. 
This  was  the  out-point  of  the  village 
travel :  beyond  was  a  region  unknown 
to  the  Manasquan  world.  In  all  Gal- 
braith's  root-hunting  explorations  of  the 
head-water  country,  he  had  never  en- 
countered a  single  inhabitant  of  the 
sleepy  Jersey  village.  Ben,  an  old  clam- 
digger — who  had  no  name  apparently  but 
Ben — had  once  built  himself  a  hut  a  mile 
or  two  above  the  road,  but  he  was  dead 
years  ago  :  so  the  story  went,  as  Dallas 
knew.     The  hills  and  defiles  on  either 


26 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


sido  of  the  broad  water  up  which  he 
floated  were  silent  and  untenanted  as  a 
shore  in  Hades.  Almost  as  spectral 
and  beautiful,  also  :  the  moon,  a  pale, 
thin  bow,  rising  low  in  the  sea  horizon, 
threw  timorous,  dim  lights  up  into  this 
far-inland  valley,  where  the  tide  crept 
and  bosomed  itself  for  a  transient  rest. 
Along  the  shore  the  knobs  and  peaks 
of  hills  grouped  themselves  in  fantastic 
forms,  bare,  save  for  the  cover  of  short, 
soft  grass,  sinking  back  into  dusky, 
wooded  slopes  behind.  Here  and  there 
one  of  these  bald  summits  lifted  a  dead 
tree  in  relief  against  the  sky,  on  whose 
topmost  limb  a  fish-hawk  sat  flapping 
its  wings  and  keeping  a  tireless  watch 
over  its  nest.  Higher  up  the  stream, 
where  the  water  was  quiet  and  less  bit- 
ter, the  wooded  hills  crept  closer  to  its 
edge,  sheltering  little  comfortable  hollows 
between  them,  which  seemed  to  wait  for 
cozy  homes.  Before  one  of  these  Dallas 
involuntarily  lifted  his  oars,  looking  at 
it  gravely.  It  was  the  place  where  he 
meant  to  build  his  own  home  some  day. 
There  was  space  for  large  buildings  and 
a  grand  sweep  of  lawn.  The  boy's  air- 
built  castle  was  not  a  cottage  :  a  fine, 
solid  house  instead,  and  its  furniture 
planned  to  fit  the  silk  and  pearl  ring 
which  he  had  once  seen  his  mother 
wear,  and  which  held  her  far  oflf  from 
him.  She  should  lose  nothing  when 
she  came  to  him.  Then,  remembering 
Laddoun,  he  rowed  on,  shutting  his  teeth 
fast. 

Galbraith's  search  lasted  all  night. 
At  the  head  of  the  inlet,  or  where  it 
breaks  squarely  against  a  hill  (a  thin, 
narrow  creek  being  the  only  conduit 
reaching  it  from  the  interior),  the  water 
forms  a  shallow,  umber-colored  bed  for 
numberless  flat,  marshy  islands,  covered 
with  reedy,  salt  grass  of  every  shade  of 
brown  and  saifron.  Between  these  flats 
Dallas  poled  his  boat  slowly,  closely  scan- 
ning the  banks  and  slopes  of  the  hills, 
afi^aid  to  call  aloud  lest  he  might  wake  the 
loud,  resonant  echoes  which  wait,  ready 
and  angry,  along  these  shores,  as  though 
impatient  of  the  coniinual  heavy  silence. 

When  the  dawn  came,  however,  filling 
the  sky  and  even  the  brown  water  with 


pink  flushes,  and  the  air  with  cold,  de- 
licious odors  from  the  pines,  Galbraith 
sprang  on  shore,  and  hurried  to  a  black 
figure  which  he  saw  lying  under  a  knot- 
ted old  cedar  half-way  up  the  sand.  It 
was  Laddoun,  asleep,  his  usually  Acrid 
face  haggard  and  colorless,  his  shiny 
clothes  and  boots  filthy  from  dragging 
through  the  mud  of  the  marsh.  He  had 
dropped  down  so  carelessly  that  the  t-de 
plashed  about  his  ankles. 

"Laddoun!  Laddoun!"  All  tie  re- 
pressed excitement  or  terror  of  the  night 
made  the  call  vehement ;  but  the  young 
man  turned  over  with  a  heavy  snore. 
If  Laddoun  was  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  he  would  rehsh  his  cut  of  beef  or 
his  sleep,  Dallas  thought.  He  shook 
him  savagely,  remembering  poor  Lizzy 
just  then,  and  how  the  wedding  morning 
was  dawning  for  her.  "  Mr.  Laddoun ! 
This  is  no  time  to  sleep  like  a  log," 
dragging  him  up  by  the  heavy  shoulders. 

George  looked  about  him,  dazed  for  a 
minute,  and  then  got  up,  and,  turning  to 
the  water,  wet  his  face  and  head. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me,  Dallas  ?" 
looking  at  him  at  last. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  ?  I've 
followed  you  all  night  to  know.  What 
does  Cradock  want  with  you  .?  What  kin 
I  do  for  you  ?"  pressing  close,  his  chin 
quivering  and  eyes  on  fire.  "  There's 
no  time  to  lose.     What  kin  I  do  ?" 

Laddoun  looked  at  him  steadily,  and 
then  sat  down  doggedly.  "You  don't 
ask  me  what  I've  done  .'"' 

Galbraith's  face  altered,  and  his  tone 
curiously  became  that  of  an  older  and 
more  reasonable  man  than  his  compan- 
ion. "  No,  I  don't  ask.  I  thought  it 
was  some  of  the  old  troubles  back 
there,"  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoul- 
der. "I  be  no  judge  of  any  man.  I'll 
do  what  I  kin.  What  is  the  quickest 
way  of  getting  clear  of  the  business  ? 
This  is — "     He  stopped. 

"It's  my  wedding  morning,  I  k/iow 
that,"  getting  up  and  sitting  down  again 
with  an  oath.  "  It's  my  ill  luck,  hound- 
ing— hounding  me,  as  usual ;"  scolding 
on,  in  a  tone  at  which  Dallas  could 
hardly  hide  a  smile,  listening  with  a 
boy's  keen  sense  of  humor.     Laddoun 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


always  faced  trouble  with  pettish  ill-tem- 
per, and,  if  nobody  else  could  be  found  to 
bear  the  blame,  had  his  Luck  ready  for 
a  fag  to  be  lashed  for  his  sins. 

Galbraith  interrupted  him.  "Is  it 
money  that's  wanted.^" 

Laddoun  avoided  his  eye,  jerking  peb- 
bles nervously  into  the  water.  "No. 
It's  not  a  debt,"  dryly.  "I  knew  that 
Quaker  the  minute  I  saw  him  with  Cra- 
dock.  I  thought,  before,  that  his  cowardly 
phiz  was  familiar  to  me.  He's  Bunsen — 
on  the  detective  force.     You  know?" 

Galbraith  nodded.  He  put  his  hands 
behind  him  presently,  steadying  himself 
against  the  cedar,  and  wet  his  lips  once 
or  twice  before  he  spoke.  Laddoun 
watched  him  shrewdly. 

"You've  no  reason  to  want  to  come 
in  his  way,  either?"  sharply.  "You've 
been  in  hiding  this  many  a  year,  Master 
Galbraith." 

"  I  don't  want  to  come  in  his  way," 
gravely.  "But  I've  not  been  guilty. 
I'll  let  no  man  say  that.  I've  not  been 
guilty." 

Laddoun  shifted  his  position  uneasily. 
It  was  curious  that  in  this  moment  of 
his  own  apparent  peril  his  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  concerned  exclusively  w^th 
the  boy,  on  guard  with  him,  as  it  were, 
watching  him  with  a  mingled  pity  and 
alarm. 

"I'd  like  to  know  the  truth  about  you, 
Dallas  Galbraith,"  he  broke  out.  "  Since 
the  day  I  helped  dig  you  out.  along  with 
the  others,  from  that  coal-pit  in  Scranton, 
three  years  ago,  nigh  dead  with  the  choke- 
damp,  you've  been  a  puzzle  to  me.  Do 
you  remember  that  day?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it." 

"  A  queer  black  beetle  you  were  !  Do 
you  mind,  when  I'd  brought  you  to,  how 
you  begged  me  to  hide  you.  to  let  you 
be  counted  as  dead  or  missing,  to  get 
you  out  of  Scranton?  For  the  love  of 
God  to  get  you  out?  Well,  did  I  do  it? 
Did  I  share  what  I  had  with  you  after 
that?  Though  how  could  I  tell  what 
sort  of  criminal  I  had  in  hiding?" 

"Yes,  you  did.  But  you  did  not  think 
me  a  criminal,  Mr.  Laddoun  ?"  passing 
both  hands  over  his  head  with  a  slow, 
patient  gesture. 


"How  could  I  tell?  Appearances 
were  against  you,"  hotly,  lashing  himself 
into  a  rage.  "  I  think  I  played  the  part 
of  a  good  friend  to  you,  Galbraith.  I 
was  but  a  poor  devil  of  a  student,  but  I 
never  treated  you  as  a  servant.  I  went 
share-and-share  with  you.  What  I  saw 
of  life,  you  saw." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it,"  under  his  breath  ;  and 
poor  Dallas  wondered  when  it  was  that 
he  had  grown  into  the  knowing  man  he 
was  now.  It  was  such  a  little  while,  be- 
fore he  was  dragged  out  of  that  pit  at 
Scranton,  that  he  had  been  a  child  sitting 
lazily  beside  his  mother  while  she  pored 
anxiously  over  his  books,  both  of  them 
sitting  down  on  the  carpet  to  play  mar- 
bles with  real  relish  and  fun  when  the  les- 
son was  learned.    Such  a  little  while  ago  ! 

When  he  heard  what  Laddoun  was  say- 
ing again,  he  found  he  was  talking  of  some 
of  the  sprees  he  had  gone  tlirough  in 
New  York. 

"Well,"  rubbing  his  chin  with  gusto, 
"we  saw  life,  Dallas,  if  we  have  to  pay 
for  it  now.  But  you  were  always  a 
puzzle  to  me." 

"This  is  no  time  to  talk  of  that. 
Cradock  is  on  your  trail." 

"Yes,  it  is  the  time,"  vehemently, 
"For,  if  you  were  not  the  knowing  little 
rough  I  thought  you,  I'd  rather  have 
lost  my  right  hand  than  have  served  you 
the  trick  that  I've  done." 

Dallas  looked  at  him.  bewildered,  a 
moment.  "Trick?  I  don't  understand. 
We  can  settle  that  afterwards.  Is  it 
one  of  the  old  gambling  matters,  that 
Bunsen  has  tracked  ?" 

"No,"  turning  away. 

Dallas  stood  deliberating.  Boy  as  he 
was,  he  had  helped  Laddoun  out  of  many 
of  the  drunken  scrapes  into  which  he 
was  perpetually  plunging  with  his  two 
or  three  chums.  It  was  the  worst  set 
among  the  medical  students  into  which 
he  had  fallen  ;  and  Laddoun  was  gener- 
ous, ready  to  fight  or  pay  for  them  to  the 
end.  When  he  was  in  the  mire,  however, 
he  was  quite  as  ready  to  howl  his  com- 
plaints out  loudly :  his  silence  now,  there- 
fore, puzzled  and  alarmed  Galbraith. 

"You've  land  enough  to  clear  you 
from  any  debt,''  he  said,  in  a  perplexed 


28 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


tone,  "and  debt  was  always  the  worst 
of  your  troubles.  And  I'll  say  this : 
that  the  least  part  of  the  money  was 
spent  on  yourself.  That  be  true  of  you, 
Laddoun." 

«I  know  it.  But  I  don't  begrudge 
the  help  I  give  the  fellows !  I  don't  be- 
grudge it.  While  a  man  lives,  let  him 
live!"  the  dark  red  mounting  to  his 
handsome  face  and  his  eye  sparkling. 
"But  this  matter — now  I'll  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  Dallas !"  flinging  out  his 
hand  to  him.  "But  for  God's  sake  be 
merciful  to  a  man !  I  was  hard  pushed. 
You  know  the  old  man  we  lodged  with, 
in  Lispenard  street?     Just  we  two?" 

"Adamson?     Yes." 

"Well" — mumbhng  the  words  rapidly, 
and  sopping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead — 
"I  was  hard  pushed.  It  was  either  the 
money  or  ruin,  and  he  was  a  hard  old 
file :  he  had  not  a  drop  of  anybody's 
blood  in  his  veins.  Now,  Dallas,  you 
know  he  was  a  hard  file — an  old  beast  ? 
More  than  any  man  I  ever  knew." 

"Go  on,"  drawing  his  breath  shorter. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  ought  to  know  what  I  mean," 
angrily.  "You  must  have  every  word 
spelled  to  you  now-a-days  before  you'll 
understand  it.  You  remember  a  cheque 
which  you  drew  for  me,  at  the  Metro- 
pohtan  Bank?  I  paid  my  endorsement 
for  Pancott  with  it,  and  you  settled  some 
other  scores,  just  before  we  came  here." 

"  I  know.  It  was  Adamson's  cheque. 
He  owed  it  to  you." 

"So  I  told  you,"  in  a  low  voice,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  him  and  going  down  to 
the  beach. 

"  Didn't  he  owe  it  to  you  ?  He  never 
gave  away  a  rag,"  with  a  laugh.  "And 
it  certainly  had  the  old  man's  name  on 
it." 

"He  did  not  sign  it,  Dallas." 

Galbraith  had  leaned  forward  to  catch 
the  half-whispered  words :  for  a  moment 
he  did  not  comprehend  them. 

Then  he  stood  erect,  the  color  gone 
from  his  face. 

"  You  mean  that  you — you —  No, 
that  can't  be  !  You're  not  a  thief,  Lad- 
doun." 

"  No,  I'm  not  a  thief,"  facing  him. 


and  putting  one  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Be  quiet.  I  signed  the  cheque,  and  I 
suppose  in  law  they'd  call  it  forgery. 
But  I  meant  to  pay  it  back  to  him. 
Now  you  know  I  meant  to  pay  it  back, 
Dallas  ?  Nobody  that  knows  the  sums 
I  give  away,  and  how  I  spend  money 
hke  water,  would  suspect  George  Lad- 
doun of  robbing  the  man  of  his  wretched 
shinplasters.  It  was  to  help  Pancott  I 
took  it.  The  old  miser  had  thousands 
hid  away,  and  I  thought  I  could  make  it 
good  to  him  some  time.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"Yes,  I  understand."  But  the  lad 
spoke  stupidly,  and  looked  at  him,  Lad- 
doun saw  angrily,  with  a  sort  of  dumb 
dismay. 

"  Never  couple  the  name  of  Laddoun 
with  thief  again,  then,"  haughtily.  "It 
was  a  miserable  business.  I  never  did 
replace  the  money.  I  never  had  it,  you 
see.  And  then,  when  we  left  the  house, 
I  recommended  a  man  named  Parker  to 
the  old  fellow  as  a  boarder,  and  I  found 
afterwards  that  Parker  was  a  bad  lot.  I 
wasn't  to  blame  there,  either.  I  hardly 
knew  the  man.     But  it  ended  badly." 

"  We  saw  in  the  papers  that  Adamson 
was  robbed  and  murdered.  Do  you 
mean  that —  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  say  who  did  it.  But 
it  never  was  discovered,  and  I  know  now 
that  Parker  was  a  bad  lot.  It  was  I 
that  brought  him  to  the  old  man.  I 
wish  to  God  my  hands  were  clear  of 
that !"  gloomily.     "  It's  my  luck." 

"  It  never  was  discovered,"  Dallas  re- 
peated mechanically,  trying  to  steady 
himself,  pulling  the  cuffs  down  over  his 
shaking  wrists. 

"  No."  Laddoun  looked  at  him  stead- 
ily, squaring  himself  before  him.  He 
was  ashamed  that  the  words  he  had  to 
say  made  him  quail  before  this  insignifi- 
cant, lank  boy  :  he  made  what  strength 
and  courage  he  could  for  himself  out 
of  his  own  portly,  handsome  presence. 
"  No.  The  detectives  have  had  it  in 
hand  for  months.  They  had  a  notion 
that  the  party  who  did  the  forgery — 
finished  the  job.  But  they've  no  proof 
of  that — not  an  atom,"  hastily  passing  his 
hand  over  his  mouth.     "  It's  only  the 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


29 


suspicion.  But  that  is  enough  to  damn 
a  man's  whole  hfe." 

The  first  shock  over,  the  reasonable 
look  began  to  come  up  into  the  lad's 
eyes.  He  put  his  hand  affectionately  on 
Laddoun's  arm. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear,"  with  an  un- 
steady smile.  "You're  not  the  sort  of 
man,  Mr.  Laddoun,  to  be  suspected  of 
murder,  let  them  prove  the  forgery  or 
not.  A  man's  character  counts  for 
something  in  law,  I  reckon." 

"They've  no  proof  of  the  forgery 
against  me,  Dallas."  It  cost  George 
Laddoun  a  harder  wrench  to  speak  the 
words  than  he  had  thought :  his  mouth 
fell  weakly  open  when  he  had  done,  and 
he  watched  the  boy  as  a  convicted  felon 
might  his  judge. 

But  Dallas  only  answered  quietly, 
"  I'm  glad  of  that ;  mostly  for  Lizzy's 
sake.    What  does  Cradock  want,  then  V 

His  stupidity  provoked  Laddoun  ;  it 
was  easier  to  go  on.  "  They've  no 
proof  against  me.  I  wasn't  even  in 
New  York  when  the  money  was  drawn. 
You  had  taken  other  cheques,  which 
Adamson  had  given  me,  to  the  bank," 
watching  Galbraith's  bewildered  face  fur- 
tively as  he  spoke. 

"  Then  it's  all  right,"  relieved.  "  No- 
body would  suspect  a  dull  boy  Hke  me 
of  it." 

"  You're  not  counted  a  dull  boy  here, 
and  you  weren't  there.  Old  Bunsen,  or 
Ledwith,  or  whatever  he  calls  himself, 
has  spread  the  notion  through  the  village 
that  the  head-work  of  the  shop  is  done 
by  you  ;  and  back  there  in  Philadelphia, 
there  was  none  of  the  fellows  that  didn't 
wonder  at  your  odd  knowledge  of 
chemistry  and  the  hand  you  wrote. 
You'd  better  use  of  your  pen  than  I  had. 
It  was  cursedly  queer  in  a  coal-digger's 
boy.  I'll  say  that.  Old  Adamson  used 
to  say,  '  There's  a  heap  of  brains  under 
that  boy's  yaller  hair.'  No,  you'd  not 
be  counted  too  dull  to  do  it." 

Dallas  stood  still  one  breathless  mo- 
ment :  then  he  came  slowly  towards  Lad- 
doun, a  fiery  heat  rising  to  his  cheeks 
and  eyes. 

"  You  thought  of  that  ?  You  made  a 
tool  of  me  ?    You  brought  this  on  me  ?" 


He  had  put  his  hand  on  Laddoun's  col- 
lar as  he  spoke,  and  when  he  had  done 
he  flung  him  from  him  fiercely,  as 
though  he  had  been  a  dog  ;  he  did  not 
even  look  to  see  where  he  fell  into  the 
muddy  tide,  but,  turning  away,  walked 
up  the  beach. 

Laddoun  gathered  himself  up  without 
either  scowl  or  oath.  He  liked  the  boy 
better  for  the  blow.  He  stood  looking 
at  him  where  he  had  seated  himself  on 
the  sand,  his  hands  clasped  about  his 
knees,  staring  down  the  river,  up  which 
the  morning  ripples  glistened  redly. 

"  Galbraith  !"  venturing  toward  him 
at  last. 

The  boy  was  deaf  and  dumb  as  a 
stone. 

"  Galbraith,  you  don't  think  I  meant 
harm  should  come  to  you  ?  As  God 
sees  me,  I  meant  to  replace  the  money 
and  make  it  all  square  with  the  old  man. 
Besides,"  hesitating,  "  I  didn't  think 
you'd  scruple  to  do  it,  even  if  you  knew." 

Still  no  answer. 

"  You  know  there  was  a  queer  suspi- 
cion about  you,  Dallas.  Now,  you  know 
there  was,"  in  a  whining  voice.  "  You 
didn't  seem  to  belong  to  your  station. 
Why  would  you  want  to  be  counted  for 
dead  if  you'd  done  nothing  amiss  ?  Why 
did  you  wince  just  now  at  the  thought 
of  the  detectives  ?  Why  did  you  keep 
so  dark  about  them  times  before  I  dug 
you  out  at  Scranton  ?  'S  long  as  I've 
knowed  you,  there's  never  a  word  drop- 
ped from  your  lips  about  them  times." 

A  change  came  into  the  lad's  face — 
an  almost  imperceptible  change — but  it 
brought  a  sharp  qualm  to  Laddoun.  "  If 
I  wronged  you,"  he  continued,  impetu- 
ously, "  I'd  give  my  right  hand  not  to 
have  done  you  this  turn.  I've  spent 
my  life  serving  others,  and  it  seems  in- 
fernally selfish  to  see  you  in  this  scrape 
and  know  that  I  can  get  oiT  scot-free. 
But  I  never  meant  harm  to  come  of  it. 
It's  my  luck." 

Dallas  staggered  to  his  feet.  "I 
don't  know  what's  luck,"  he  said,  dully. 
"  There's  something  that's  kept  its  hold 
on  me  and  dragged  me  down,  down, 
since  the  beginning.  I'm  tired  of  fight- 
ing agen  it     I  reckon  it's  God.     But  for 


3° 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


you,  Laddoun,"  turning  on  him  fiercely, 
"if  you  think  you"ll  get  off  scot-free, 
you're  mistaken.  You  wrote  me  a  let- 
ter from  Albany,  where  you'd  gone  on 
a  spree,  saying  that  Adamson  had  given 
you  the  cheque,  and  telHng  me  where  in 
your  bureau  to  find  it.  IVe  got  that 
letter  now.  It  was  uncommon  kind, 
and  I  kept  it — like  a  fool !  I  never 
threw  away  a  kind  word." 

"  YouVe  got  that  letter  ?" 

"  Yes."  Laddoun  walked  up  to  the 
boy,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes  :  the 
man,  like  any  animal  driven  to  bay,  was 
not  without  a  certain  courage. 

"It  will  not  help  you,  Dallas,  to  bring 
me  in  with  you.  They  would  take  that 
letter  for  a  plot  between  us." 

"You  worked  for  your  punishment, 
and  you  shall  have  it.  If  the  lifting  of 
my  hand  would  clear  you,  I  wouldn't  do 
it." 

"The  lifting  of  your  hand  would  clear 
me.  There's  no  proof  against  me  but 
that  letter." 

If  he  had  hoped  by  this  to  move  the 
boy  to  any  sympathy,  he  was  mistaken. 
Dallas  gave  a  short,  savage  laugh,  and 
turned  off — did  not  look  back  even 
when  the  sound  of  oars  broke  the  still- 
ness, and  Laddoun,  with  an  oath,  cried 
out  that  the  men  were  on  them.  "  There 
is  no  use  in  running.  Cradock  is  armed," 
he  said. 

Dallas  made  no  reply,  but  stood  quiet- 
ly, watching  the  boat  pushing  its  way 
slowly  through  the  narrow  black  currents 
between  the  marshy  islands. 

"  When  I  saw  Cradock  with  the  Qua- 
ker last  night,"  said  Laddoun,  in  a  thick, 
rapid  tone,  "  I  thought  they'd  scented 
you  out,  Dallas.  They  had  no  proof 
against  me.  I  couldn't  stay  to  see  you 
taken  and  know  I'd  brought  it  on  you. 
That's  what  I'm  here  for.  They  have 
no  warrant  against  me.  There's  no 
proof  but  that  letter  against  me." 

But  Galbraith  was  silent.  The  men 
had  brought  the  boat  up  to  the  shore  at 
last,  and  one  after  another  sprang  ashore. 
There  were  Graah  and  two  fishermen, 
beside  Cradock  and  the  pseudo  Quaker. 
They  all  watched  the  two  figures  anx- 
iously as  they  came  nearer.     Laddoun 


put  on  his  hat  and  threw  back  his  chest, 
bowing  with  a  faint  imitation  of  his  old 
pompous  pohteness. 

"Aha  1  they  don't  mean  to  make  fight," 
said  Bunsen,  in  an  undertone.  But  the 
sheriff  was  looking  intently  at  Galbraith. 
The  wind  blew  the  boy's  thin,  fair  hair 
back,  and  there  was  something  in  the 
childish  face  and  reasonable,  woman's 
eyes  that  had  its  effect  on  the  old  man, 

"  That  be'n't  the  face  of  a  bad  one," 
he  said,  doubtfully.  "You've  made  no 
mistake  in  the  lad  ?" 

"I've  made  no  mistake.  That  fellow's 
got  more  wit  than  you  or  I,  in  some 
ways,  innocent  as  he  looks.  Graah  can 
tell  you  that." 

"  I've  got  no  ill  word  to  say  agin  the 
boy,"  said  Graah,  stopping  short  for 
emphasis,  his  solid  voice  going  up  and 
down  with  the  swing  of  a  pendulum. 
"  I  know  nothin'  but  good  of  him.  An' 
George  Laddoun's  my  neighbor.  I  come 
here  to  see  fair  play,  an'  so  I  tell  you ; 
an'  if  them  men  say  they're  innocent, 
I'm  on  their  side,  constable  or  no  con- 
stable." 

Bunsen  glanced  at  the  ponderous  vil- 
lage authority  with  a  slight  smile,  and 
passed  him.  Cradock  touched  the  han- 
dle of  a  pistol  in  his  breast-pocket. 
"  Better  keep  clear  of  this  matter,  Mr. 
Graah,"  he  said. 

"  As  if  I  be  afeerd  of  his  pistols  !" 
muttered  the  old  man,  aloud.  But  he 
winced  before  the  officer's  indifferent 
good-humor :  it  symbolized  the  law. 
He  and  the  two  men  stood  apart,  watch- 
ing, while  the  others  went  up  to  Lad- 
doun and  the  boy.  They  held  their 
breath  to  listen ;  and  no  wonder.  It 
was  ten  years  ago  since  Cradock  had 
made  an  arrest  in  Manasquan,  and  it 
had  become  a  date  in  the  fireside  sto- 
ries ;  and  these  were  the  village  favor- 
ites. It  was  as  if  a  pestilence  had  broken 
out  with  an  hour's  warning  in  their  midst 

"  When  he  took  hold  of  the  boy,"  old 
Graah  said  to  his  wife  afterwards,  "I 
tell  you  I  felt  an  in'ard  tug  an'  choke, 
just  as  when  our  Joe  was  nigh  drowned 
in  the  under-tow.  I  couldn't  but  think 
of  the  sickness  last  summer,  an'  how  the 
lad  went  about  from  house  to  house,  nor 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


31 


how  Ihe  little  'uns  made  much  of  him. 
I  count  them  judges — little  'uns."  But 
in  tho  village  gossip  over  the  matter, 
Graah  went  no  farther  than,  "  I  say 
nothin' — law's  law." 

Laddoun  met  the  officer  with  another 
bow.  "  One  too  many  for  an  innocent 
man,"  Cradock  muttered. 

'•  You  had  business  with  me,  gentle- 
men V 

Bunsen  nodded.  "  Not  pleasant  busi- 
ness, Doctor  Laddoun.  But  no  doubt 
you  will  be  able  to  adjust  the  matter 
satisfactorily.  We  men  of  the  world  see 
these  things  in  a  different  light  from  our 
friends  here,"  beckoning  back  to  the  vil- 
lagers. 

Laddoun  combed  his  whiskers,  smiling 
with  a  ghastly  counterfeit  of  ease.  "  I 
have  no  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  diffi- 
culty," he  stammered,  not  having  yet 
determined  on  his  course  of  defence. 
"  Appearances  may  be  against  me,  but 
I  can  set  it  right — I  can  set  it  right." 

'>  Until  you  know  the  proof  against 
you,  it  is  better  to  commit  yourself  as 
little  as  possible,"  said  Bunsen,  dryly. 

Laddoun's  countenance  steadied  at 
this.  He  drew  from  it  that  the  proof 
was  slight,  and  thought  the  warning 
friendly  in  Bunsen.  He  noted  shrewdly, 
too,  that  the  detective,  while  he  talked 
to  him,  kept  his  eyes  on  Dallas  with  a 
sort  of  critical  admiration. 

"They  give  the  boy  credit  for  the 
brains  of  the  concern,"  he  thought,  with 
an  odd  mixture  of  relief  and  annoy- 
ance. 

Then  Bunsen  went  over  to  Galbraith. 
"  I  have  a  warrant  for  you,"  he  said, 
putting  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
raising  his  voice.  The  others  stood 
listening. 

Dallas  took  the  man's  hand  off  quietly, 
but  his  grip  was  like  iron.  "Til  go 
without  force,"  he  said,  in  a  shrill,  loud 
voice,  speaking,  not  to  the  officer,  but  to 
Graah  and  the  iishermen.  "  I  took  the 
cheque  to  the  bank.  But  I'm  innocent. 
Lm  no  thief" 

He  went  alone  before  them  all,  and 
took  his  seat  in  the  boat.  When  they 
were  all  in,  and  had  begun  to  row  down 
stream,  he  put  out  his   hand  to  Graah's 


knee.  "Mr.  Graah? — "  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

But  the  law  was  beginning  to  have  its 
effect  on  the  old  man :  his  jaws  worked 
nervously  as  he  chewed  his  plug  of  to- 
bacco ;  he  kept  his  eyes  turned  down 
from  the  lad's  face,  and  moved  his  lat 
knees  with  a  little  shuffle  of  rehef  when 
he  took  his  hand  away.  This  was  the 
last  appeal  that  Dallas  made — then  or 
afterwards.  He  was  dumb,  unless  when 
spoken  to,  during  the  time  that  elapsed 
before  he  was  removed  for  trial  to  New 
York.  Watchful,  too ;  his  eyes  turning 
to  one  face  after  another  with  a  look 
which  brought  the  tears  to  many  of  the 
women's  eyes.  If  they  had  spoken  out 
boldly  the  faith  they  had  in  him,  God 
knows  how  differently  it  might  have 
gone  with  the  boy.  But  the  shadow  of 
authority  was  a  power  in  Manasquan  :  a 
man  once  in  the  clutches  of  the  law  was 
guilty  till  proved  to  be  innocent. 

Going  down  the  river,  the  sun  shone 
out  brightly.  Laddoun  talked  to  the 
detective  and  Cradock,  with  the  old  af- 
fectation of  ease,  about  the  unimproved 
condition  of  the  land,  the  chances  of 
marl  in  a  field  back  of  the  beach ;  even 
pointing  out,  with  a  shaking  forefinger, 
the  swarms  of  red  and  black-winged 
lady-bugs  on  the  marsh-grass.  Bunsen 
answered  him  pleasantly,  but  his  attempt 
at  indifference  told  badly  on  Graah  and 
the  fishermen.  They  scowled  at  him 
doubtfully,  askance.  A  Manasquan  man 
in  Cradock's  terrible  grip  had  no  need 
to  chatter  of  marl  or  bugs. 

When  they  came  to  the  landing-place, 
there  was  a  strange  silence  noticeable  on 
shore,  by  which  one  might  know  the 
great  calamity  that  had  fallen  on  the  vil- 
lage. The  seines  were  still  wound  on  the 
reels,  the  mackerel-boats  empty  and  at 
anchor:  for  the  first  time  in  many  years, 
old  Calcroft,  the  clam-digger,  was  gone 
from  his  post.  Laddoun,  glancing  fever- 
ishly from  side  to  side,  saw  that  the 
front  shutters  of  most  of  the  wooden 
houses  were  closed  as  they  passed  up 
the  long,  sandy  road.  There  was  the 
usual  caucus  of  men  on  Nixon's  porch, 
but  they  sat  in  gloomy  silence,  staring 
into  vacancy,  as  the  prisoners  went  by. 


32 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


There  was  not  one  of  them  who  did  not 
hold  the  boy,  at  least,  to  be  innocent; 
not  one  of  them  who,  if  he  were  going 
down  in  the  treacherous  sea  yonder, 
would  not  have  gone  out  to  save  him. 
But  what  fault  have  we  to  find  with  the 
cautious  Jersey  villagers  ?  Which  of  us 
has  not  seen  some  soul  going  down  in 
deep  waters  and  kept  a  discreet,  conven- 
tional silence,  when  a  cheerful  call  and  a 
hand  held  out  would  have  brought  them 
to  the  shore  ? 

There  was  not  one  of  their  faces 
which  Dallas  did  not  read  with  his  slow, 
unappealing  eyes ;  but  Bunsen  alone 
suspected  what  was  hid  beneath  the  lad's 
unnatural  composure :  nothing  escaped 
him,  from  the  slow  settling  of  the  blood 
under  his  nostrils  to  the  faint  breath 
drawn  at  long  intervals.  He  guessed 
that  this  matter  had  nigh  pushed  the 
boy  to  some  strange  extremity.  "  But 
he  must  have  some  friend  to  fall  back 
on :  there'll  be  a  rope  held  out  to  him, 
surely,  at  the  last." 

Cradock  whispered  to  him  that  Dallas 
seemed  too  dull  and  childish  for  such 
work  as  forgery,  and  Bunsen  contented 
himself  by  pointing  out  his  firm  step, 
different  from  Laddoun,  who  cringed 
along  beside  him.  "The  boy's  of  an- 
other strain  of  blood  from  any  of  these 
people  hereabout;  there's  breeding  and 
strength  in  him,"  and  he  recounted  the 
story  of  the  chemical  apparatus ;  for 
Bunsen  was  but  like  less  shrewd  men, 
and  was  awed  by  any  knowledge  which 
he  could  not  possess. 

He  would  have  rated  Dallas  as  dull 
enough  if  he  could  have  seen  how  ut- 
terly he  had  given  up  all  hope  of  ac- 
quittal. The  letter  would  be  proof  of 
Laddoun's  guilt,  but  not  of  his  own  in- 
nocence, he  believed,  because  Laddoun 
had  told  him  so.  When  Cradock  spoke 
to  him,  he  only  repeated  the  same  words 
mechanically:  "I  took  the  cheque  to  the 
bank;  but  I'm  not  a  thief" 

They  had  but  one  place,  two  rooms 
in  the  back  of  a  vacant  house,  in  which 
to  confine  the  prisoners  until  evening, 
when  Squire  Boles,  who  was  absent  at 
a  woods'  meeting,  could  give  them  a 
hearing.     Bunsen  ushered  them  into  a 


narrow  hall,  smelling  of  fresh  pine,  on 
either  side  of  which  was  a  square  apart- 
ment. 

"You'd  better  take  one  room,  Lad- 
doun, and  the  lad  the  other.  Mr.  Cra- 
dock will  smoke  a  pipe  with  me,  here. 
Send  me  up  some  tobacco,  Graah.  When 
will  I  leave  Manasquan  ?"  repeating  the 
old  man's  whisper  aloud.  "Well,  if 
matters  go  against  our  friends  here,  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  a  requisition.  I've 
had  a  pleasant  sojourn  in  Manasquan," 
patronizingly.  "  And  by  the  way,  Graah, 
if  any  of  Laddoun's  or  the  lad's  friends 
would  like  a  word  with  them,  they  can 
come  up.  I  want  all  things  to  be 
friendly  among  us." 

Laddoun  and  the  boy,  standing  in  the 
opposite  doors  of  the  hall,  heard  him. 
Dallas  came  forward.  "  I  have  friends," 
he  said,  in  a  strained,  distinct  voice. 
"They  showed  that  to  me  last  night. 
Tell  them  I'm  no  thief" 

Graah  listened  with  his  head  down  on 
his  breast,  but  made  no  answer.  Then 
Dallas  went  into  the  room  allotted  to 
him,  and  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  boards 
which  had  been  left  on  the  floor.  Lad- 
doun came  inside  of  the  door,  glancing 
back,  lest  he  had  been  seen.  "Gal- 
braith  !"  in  a  shrill,  desperate  whisper, 
beckoning  with  his  hand.  "For  God's 
sake !  There's  no  proof  against  me  but 
the  letter.      Think  of  Lizzy!" 

"  Tut,  tut !  my  man.  This  won't  do," 
and  Bunsen  shoved  him  good-naturedly 
out  of  the  door.  But  Dallas  had  list- 
ened to  him  with  an  unmoved  face, 
sitting  with  his  hands  clasped  about  his 
knees  on  the  planks,  the  sunlight  falling 
about  him. 

Laddoun,  locked  up  in  the  little  eight- 
by-ten  room,  paced  to  and  fro  like  a 
caged  bloodhound.  He  had  a  real  af- 
fection for  Galbraith,  and  between  that, 
and  a  consciousness  which  he  would 
hardly  acknowledge  to  himself  that  he 
had  not  "played  the  fair  card  by  him," 
the  boy  filled  his  mind  more  than  Lizzy 
or  his  own  danger  or  shame.  He  swore 
to  himself  half  a  dozen  times  that  he 
would  call  in  Cradock  and  Bunsen  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it — let  the  boy 
off. 


BALLAD   GALBRAITH. 


33 


That  would  be  the  generous  thing  to 
do ;  and  while  the  heroic  spasm  lasted 
Laddoun  was  quite  capable  of  doing  it. 
He  had  his  hand  on  the  door-knob  to 
call  Bunsen,  when  it  was  pushed  open, 
and  the  officer  came  in. 

"  I  came  to  have  a  pipe  and  chat  with 
you,  Laddoun." 

The  young  fellow  drew  himself  up  on 
giiard.  "I  don't  smoke,  here.  It  stu- 
pefies me,  and  I'll  keep  my  wits  awake 
to-day,  Bunsen." 

"A  talk,  then,"  seating  himself  lei- 
surely on  the  chair  which  he  had  car- 
ried in,  his  opaque  eyes  on  Laddoun's 
flushed  face.  "I'll  be  frank  with  you. 
It's  the  best  plan  with  shrewd  fellows 
like  yourself" 

Laddoun  laughed  coarsely.  "  Too 
shrewd  to  be  humbugged,"  he  said ;  but 
he  began  to  comb  his  oily  whiskers  with 
renewed  complacence. 

«  No.  I  show  you  my  hand.  I  tell 
you  fairly  that  I  think  that  boy  has  used 
you.  He's  a  deep  one,  and  I'd  like  to 
trace  him  back  to  the  beginning.  Tell 
me  what  you  know  of  him  :  it  won't  go 
harder  with  you  if  you  do,"  meaningly. 

Laddoun  made  one  or  two  turns,  his 
brows  contracted,  a  half  word  escaping 
him  now  and  then.  Whatever  was 
his  struggle,  the  dead  gray  eyes  above 
the  pipe  appeared  to  take  no  cognizance 
of  it. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  Galbraith's  antece- 
dents," he  broke  out.  "  I  helped  drag 
him  out  of  a  coal-pit  in  Scranton,  where 
there  were  a  dozen  diggers  killed  with 
the  choke-damp.  It  was  when  I  was  in 
Philadelphia,  and  I  and  a  lot  of  fellows 
were  up  in  the  coal  country  on  a  spree. 
Being  doctors,  they  called  on  us.  It 
was  at  night,  and  I  had  this  boy  in  a 
shed  by  one  of  the  heaps  of  coal-dust 
•when  I  brought  him  to  life.  He  begged 
me  to  hide  him  and  let  him  pass  for 
dead,  and  I  did  it.  I've  kept  him  since. 
I  think  I've  been  a  friend  to  Dallas  Gal- 
braith,"  doggedly. 

"  I  should  say  you  had,"  soothingly. 
«  Pass  for  dead,  eh  ?  That  hints  at  a 
bad  record.  I  judge  Master  Galbraith 
had  made  acquaintance  with  men  of  my 
trade  before." 
3 


"  It  don't  follow  that  he  had,  by  any 
means,"  sullenly.  "  The  boy's  back  was 
purple  with  wales  and  scars  when  I  got 
him.  The  men  in  the  pits  had  used  him 
brutally.     That's  the  whole  secret  of  it." 

Bunsen  smoked  in  silence  awhile,  then 
he  took  up  another  trail.  "  So  it  was 
with  you  he  learned  the  rudiments  of  his 
trade — chemistry,  botany,  and  tiie  like  .^ 
He  told  me  he  had  had  a  chance." 

"  He  had  no  chance  with  me.  It  was 
an  old  thing  with  him  :  I  never  knew 
where  he  learned  it.  He  was  cursedly 
close-mouthed.  And  I  don't  think  I 
deserved  it.  He'd  had  the  training  of  a 
gentleman's  son,  Dallas  had,  though  he'd 
learned  the  talk  of  the  Scranton  pits 
since.  But  when  you  get  below  the 
coal-soot  on  him,  and  the  coal-wavs, 
there's  a  boy  that  I  don't  pretend  to  un- 
derstand." 

"  I  must  say  that  he  has  treated  you 
ungratefully,"  suggested  the  detective, 
with  affectionate  earnestness.  '•  So  lie 
kept  his  own  counsel,  did  he  ?" 

"  He's  showing  his  gratitude  to-day," 
with  a  bitter  laugh,  remembering  the  let- 
ter. "As  for  his  secrets,  I  never  tried 
to  worm  them  from  him.  There  were 
places  and  people  he  was  afraid  of,  as  a 
child  would  be  of  ghosts  in  the  dark. 
He's  nothing  but  a  child  in  most  ways, 
after  all,"  in  a  relenting  tone.  "  But  lie 
can  keep  his  mind  to  himself,  as  I  never 
could  do." 

"  Did  you  know  that  he  applied  for 
entrance  as  student  in  one  or  two  labora- 
tories while  he  was  with  you  ?" 

"No.  But  it's  likely.  He  had  a 
natural  hankering  for  that  sort  of  work. 
The  fellows  helped  him  to  books.  So 
did  I." 

"  But  it  needed  an  entrance-fee,  which 
he  could  not  pay,"  he  continued,  his  eyes 
still  on  Laddoun.  "  He  applied  in  one 
place  the  very  day  before  the  forgery. 
He  needed  money  for  the  fee  and  his 
board,  if  he  left  you.  That  is  a  proof 
against  him  :  it  looks  badly." 

"Yes,  it  looks  badly,"  rubbing  his 
hands  nervously  one  over  the  other. 

Cradock  called  to  Bunsen  just  then, 
and  he  rose,  picking  up  his  chair.  Lad- 
doun's imbecile  hand  went  shaking  up 


34 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


to  his  collar  and  his  mouth,  hinting  at 
his  secret. 

"  Do  you  want  to  say  anjlihing  more 
to  me,  Doctor?"  suggested  Bunsen,  star- 
ing at  the  opposite  wall. 

"  I  1  No.  What  should  I  have  to 
say  ?" 

"  Good  morning,  then." 

"I  might  probably  think  of  something 
to  mention.  Will  you  be  outside  if  I 
should  V 

"  Outside,  just  within  call.  You  don't 
think  of  it  now  ?" 

"No."  But  the  detective  still  held 
the  door  open  and  waited  a  moment, 
and  in  that  moment  Laddoun  held  his 
own  chance  of  manhood  and  Galbraith's 
fate  in  the  breath  of  his  nostrils. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  the  door  was  shut. 


CHAPTER    V. 

Laddoun  ate  a  hearty  dinner  that 
day.  Nixon  sent  up  the  best  mutton- 
chops  his  kitchen  could  furnish  to  the 
prisoners,  and  by  the  time  they  came 
the  young  doctor  was  sure  of  Acquittal. 
He  had  sent  in  his  mother  to  talk  to  the 
boy,  and  he  had  no  doubt  he  would  de- 
stroy the  letter.  Dallas  could  not  with- 
stand a  woman's  tears. 

She  found  him  still  sitting  on  the  pile 
of  planks,  his  hands  about  his  knees,  as 
he  had  been  since  morning,  only  that 
the  untasted  meal  was  spread  out  cold 
on  its  tray  on  the  floor,  and  the  sunshine 
had  crept  farther  from  him  to  the  oppo- 
site wall.  The  old  woman  said  but  little, 
and  shed  no  tears.  A  great  age  seemed 
to  have  fallen  on  her  chirrupy  little  figure 
and  face  since  morning.  She  stood  look- 
ing at  the  floor  at  her  feet,  her  gray  hair 
not  so  wan  or  old  as  the  features  it 
framed. 

Dallas  rose  when  she  came  in. 

"  George  tells  me  that  you  can  clear 
him  by  a  word  ?" 

He  made  no  answer :  she  would  not 
have  heard  him  if  he  had. 

"  I  can't  beg  it  of  you,"  steadying  her- 
self by  one  groping  hand  on  the  wall. 
"I'm  not    strong.      I've    buried    seven 


children  in  my  time,  but  there's  no  blow 
been  like  this." 

She  waited  a  few  moments,  uncon- 
scious, he  saw,  that  he  was  there. 
When  she  turned  to  the  door,  he  took 
her  by  the  elbow  and  helped  her  gently. 
She  was  muttering  about  "  George,"  but 
had  altogether  forgotten  what  she  came 
to  ask  of  him.  When  Bunsen  opened 
the  door,  she  made  her  formal,  old-fash- 
ioned little  courtesy  to  them,  and  went 
away  without  saying  a  word.  But  an 
hour  or  two  afterwards  Gall^raith  saw 
her  sitting  on  a  log  outside  of  the  win- 
dow of  Laddoun's  room.  There  she  sat 
all  day,  motionless.  If  she  had  gone 
down  on  her  knees  to  him,  it  would  not 
have  made  the  boy's  heart  so  sore  as 
the  sight  of  her  sitting  there. 

Father  Kimball  came  up  in  the  after- 
noon and  talked  to  him,  but  Dallas  made 
dull,  irrelevant  answers.  He  could  not 
understand  the  old  man's  words  ;  they 
sounded  like  water  falling  far  off,  they 
had  so  little  meaning  in  this  matter — 
this  pain  of  his.  He  broke  into  a  text 
of  Scripture  which  the  good  old  preacher 
quoted,  with — 

"  If  I  could  prove  that  I  was  used  as 
a  tool — what  then  ?" 

Father  Kimball's  eye  gathered  its 
quick  shrewdness.  "  By  Laddoun  ? 
I'll  tell  you  candidly,  my  boy,  the  evi- 
dence is  strongest  against  you :  there 
is  only  the  suspicion  of  collusion  with 
George.  The  cheque  was  drawn  by  you, 
the  money  was  paid  out  by  you,  and 
there  is  abundance  of  testimony  as  to 
your  remarkable  skill  with  your  pen. 
Even  if  you  bring  proof  that  Laddoun  was 
a  confederate,  you  cannot  clear  yourself" 

"  I  cannot  clear  myself"  He  went 
on  repeating  these  words  so  long  to  him- 
self that,  with  his  haggard,  colorless 
face,  the  old  man  feared  he  was  becom- 
ing insane.  "You'd  better  eat  some- 
thing, Dallas,"  he  said.  "And  be  pa- 
tient. If  you  are  innocent — and  I  be- 
lieve you  are  innocent,"  quickly  catching 
the  boy's  unsteady  eye — "be  patient  and 
trust  in  the  Lord.  He  will  deliver  you 
if  you  are  one  of  his  children." 

"  If  I  am  found  guilty,"  abruptly, 
"  what  is  the  punishment  ?" 


DALLAS  GALBRALTH. 


35 


Father  Kimball  coughed  once  or  twice 
before  he  found  courage  to  say,  "  Surely 
you  know,  Dallas.  You  will  be  sent  to 
prison." 

Dallas  got  up  as  if  his  joints  were 
stiffened,  looking  out  into  the  sunlight : 
his  lips  moved  as  if  by  machinery.  « I 
did  the  best  I  could,"  he  said,  "  and  it's 
come  to  this." 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
"You  can't  make  your  own  lot,"  he  said, 
taking  Galbraith's  cold  hand  in  his. 
"The  Lord  has  it  in  care.  That  is,  if 
you  are  one  of  His  children.  Every 
hair  of  your  head  is  numbered.  But  if 
you've  never  been  converted,  your  good 
intentions  and  works  are  but  as  filthy 
rags,  in  His  sight." 

Dallas  turned  his  pale  face  on  him, 
bewildered.  Father  Kimball  saw  that 
he  was  using  an  unknown  tongue,  and 
he  suddenly  turned  to  worldly  matters. 

"  Have  you  no  friends,  Dallas  ?  No 
father  or  kinsfolk .-'  Fve  often  suspected 
you  were  of  better  birth  than  Laddoun 
knew.  If  it  is  so,  tell  me,  my  child. 
Let  me  apply  to  them.  If  they  have 
influence,  your  whole  future  may  depend 
on  it." 

"It's  all  done  with  to-day,"  Dallas 
said,  as  though  talking  to  himself. 
"If  I  can't  clear  myself,  there's  no 
future  for  me.  Do  you  think  I'd  go 
back  a  jail-bird  to  my  mother?" 

He  sat  down  again,  and  after  that 
seemed  to  hear  nothing  that  the  old  man 
said  to  him.  When  he  was  gone,  Tim 
Graah  climbed  up  to  the  outside  of  the 
window,  and  after  Dallas  had  wliispered 
a  few  words  to  him,  disappeared  into  the 
woods,  running  like  a  hare.  Now,  there 
had  not  been  a  word  spoken  by  either 
of  the  prisoners,  all  day,  which  had  not 
reached  the  thick  ears  of  the  leaden- 
faced  man  sitting  on  a  chair  tilted  back 
in  the  hall,  just  outside  of  their  doors. 
He  had  his  own  reasons  for  sifting  their 
secrets. 

But  Tim  had  caught  sight  of  him. 
He  did  not  try,  therefore,  to  scale  the 
window  again.  Instead,  a  bit  of  bark, 
with  one  or  two  papers  wrapped  about 
it,  was  thrown  in  a  half  hour  later,  and 
fell  noiselessly  at  Galbraith's  feet.     One 


was  the  old  letter  from  Laddoun:  the 
other  a  brown  paper  wrapping,  on  which 
was  printed  in  big  text:  "All  us  boys  is 
frends  to  you,  Dallas.      Timotliy  Graali." 

Dallas  laughed,  and  colored,  when  he 
read  it,  folded  it  up  and  hid  it  in  his 
shirt :  then  took  it  out  to  read  over,  laugh- 
ing again,  but  with  the  tears  coming 
slowly  down  his  cheeks.  The  other 
paper  he  kept  in  his  pocket.  He  did 
not  read  it  over  again. 

Just  before  dusk  he  heard  a  noise  in 
the  hall,  Bunsen  and  Cradock  moving 
from  their  chairs,  and  a  woman's  voice. 
They  opened  Laddoun's  door. 

"No.      I  will  see  Dallas,"  she  said. 

It  was  Lizzy.  The  sight  of  her  roused 
him  as  nothing  else  had  done:  there 
she  was,  with  her  yesterday's  face,  quiet 
and  steady.  If  the  terrible  blow  had 
touched  her,  it  had  left  no  traces.  While 
he  looked  at  her  smooth  hair,  the  knitting 
stuck  in  her  black  silk  apron,  the  well- 
blacked  shoes,  the  w^hole  matter  seemed 
like  a  dream,  and  his  old  self  came  back 
to  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,  Lizzy,"  holding 
out  his  hand. 

But  after  taking  it  she  did  not  speak 
for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  she  said, 
cheerfully,  "  I  came  to  see  that  you  were 
doing  all  that  you  could  for  yoursel£ 
First,  eat,"  opening  a  covered  basket 
which  she  carried.  Dallas  obeyed  her, 
at  first  from  his  usual  submission,  and 
then,  like  a  boy,  ravenously.  When  he 
had  done,  he  pushed  away  the  basket 
and  sat  looking  at  her.  The  good  taste 
of  the  food,  the  hearty  warmth  of  her 
presence,  made  his  fate  loom  up  colder 
and  more  ten'ible.  It  was  so  natural  to 
just  be  a  boy,  to  eat  and  drink,  to  hve 
a  careless,  jolly  hfe,  like  the  rest  of 
them. 

"Now,"  nodding  slowly,  one  finger 
laid  in  her  palm.  "What  proof  have 
you  of  your  innocence  ?  I  mean  to  put 
it  into  shape  for  you." 

"I  have  no  proof.  There's  been 
something  agin  me  from  the  first,  Lizzy. 
I  can't  fight  it." 

"That  is  childish,"  sharply.  "I  be- 
lieve in  your  innocence  as  much  as — as 
I  do  in  Laddoun's,"  hurriedly.     "  If  I 


36 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


were  a  man,  I'd  force  justice  from  the 
law.     I'd  never  whimper." 

"As  you  beHeve  in  Laddoun's?"  he 
repeated,  in  a  slow,  thoughtful  under- 
tone. 

She  did  not  answer  him  for  a  minute, 
and  he  noticed  that  she  put  down  the 
basket  which  she  was  adjusting,  and 
rested  her  hand  on  the  wall.  "I  did 
not  come  here  to  talk  of  Laddoun.  There 
is  no  proof  against  him.  If  I  did  not 
believe  him  to  be  innocent,  what  would 
become  of  me,  Dallas  V 

"I  know,  Lizzy." 

"But  it  is  you  who  are  in  danger. 
What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

Dallas  was  standing  before  her,  a 
compassionate  smile  on  his  face,  as  he 
noted  how  her  firm,  hard  voice  clung  and 
lingered  to  Laddoun's  name.  But  when 
she  spoke  of  himself,  he  grew  grave  and 
quiet.  "We  will  not  talk  of  the  chance 
for  me,"  he  said.  "There  is  none.  It 
has  not  been  my  fault.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  them  all  I  am  no  thief.  That 
is  all  I  can  say." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him  long  and 
searchingly.  "  If  I  did  not  think  George 
Laddoun  innocent,  what  would  become 
of  me  ?"  she  said,  her  very  lips  growing 
pale. 

Galbraith  drew  a  long  breath:  then 
he  smiled  cheerfully,  and  took  her  hand. 
"There  will  be  no  proof  against  Lad- 
doun, Lizzy,"  he  said. 

When  she  went  out,  she  saw  him 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  still 
smiling  cheerfully  after  her. 

She  did  not  go  in  to  see  Laddoun. 

Squire  Boles  came  up  to  the  vacant 
house  when  he  reached  home  after  dark, 
and  it  was  there  that  the  prisoners  had 
their  hearing.  The  witness  had  been 
at  Nixon's  all  day;  a  bank  clerk;  a 
quiet,  bald-headed  gentleman,  in  a  shining 
suit  of  broadcloth,  who  walked  about 
among  the  barefooted  fishermen,  watch- 
ing them  with  the  askance,  deferential 
courtesy  of  a  hare  let  loose  among  a 
gang  of  mastiffs  on  their  parole.  He 
noted  their  grim  reticence  with  surprise : 
not  even  the  landlady  asked  him  a  ques- 
tion. They  knew  that  Laddoun  and  the 
boy's  future   depended  on  his   tongue. 


It  was  not  their  habit  to  gossip  when 
deeply  moved. 

People  went  up  to  the  vacant  house 
after  dark,  and  crowded  into  the  hall, 
silent  as  if  they  came  to  a  funeral. 
When  the  door  was  opened,  they  could 
catch  glimpses  of  the  room  in  which 
Squire  Boles  sat  behind  a  high  desk, 
carried  up  for  the  occasion,  his  book, 
ink  and  spectacles  spread  out  under  the 
light  of  two  tallow  candles. 

Cradock  stood  beside  him,  stern  and 
unsmiling,  and,  behind,  the  solid  gray 
face  of  the  detective  was  dimly  seen  in 
the  darkness,  no  unfitting  figure,  it 
seemed  to  the  fishermen,  to  decide  on 
this  matter  of  life  and  death. 

"They  say,"  they  whispered  to  each 
other,  "that  Boles'  verdict  be  as  good 
as  final.  Bunsen's  hinted  one  of  them 
be  sure  to  get  off",  but  it's  a  dead  cer- 
tainty agin  the  other.  Which,  I  don't 
know." 

When  Laddoun  and  the  boy  were  led 
in  through  a  side  door,  the  crowd  with- 
out stood  on  their  tip-toes,  trying  to  dis- 
cern from  their  faces  which  was  the 
guilty  one.  The  boy  stood  near  the 
open  fireplace,  in  which  a  log  or  two 
had  been  kindled,  and  bent  forward,  his 
hands  behind  him,  so  that  the  light 
flickered  over  his  fair  hair  and  pale,  quiet 
features :  Laddoun  was  in  shadow,  but 
they  could  discern  his  ruddy,  careless 
face  and  portly  swagger;  now  and  then, 
too,  he  nodded  and  smiled  to  some  one 
without. 

"Whichever  be  the  guilty  one,"  said 
Nixon,  sententiously,  "he  be  as  good  as 
dead  to  us.  No  jail-bird  need  show  his 
face  in  Manasquan  agin." 

His  voice  was  loud.  He  saw  Dallas 
raise  his  hand  to  his  collar,  and  as  sud- 
denly let  it  fall.  Old  Mrs.  Laddoun 
pressed  her  way  among  them  into  the 
room,  dropping  a  courtesy  as  she  went. 

"  My  son  George  be  in  trouble,  gentle- 
men," she  said,  slowly  ;  "  my  son  George 
be  in  trouble,"  with  a  feeble  little  smile. 
They  all  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass,  and 
many  of  them  muttered  a  "God  help 
her  !" 

There  was  another  woman  who  sat 
outside  on  a  bench  in  the  corner,  with 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


37 


her  face  turned  from  the  door.  They 
whispered  among  each  otiier  that  it  was 
Lizzy.  Poor  little  Jim  Van  Zeldt  hung 
about  near  her.  He  was  confident  that 
Laddoun  was  innocent,  but  there  was  no 
telling  how  the  verdict  would  go,  and  he 
wanted  to  be  near  her  if  she  needed  any 
help. 

Then  the  door  was  shut.  There  was 
a  profound  silence  outside  :  they  could 
hear  a  low,  monotonous  voice  within, 
and  knew  it  was  the  bank  clerk  giving 
his  evidence.  Old  Father  Kimball  came 
into  the  hall  out  of  the  woods. 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  mean  to  come 
up,  brother  ?"  one  of  the  men  whispered. 

"  I  could  not  refrain,"  the  old  man 
said.  "  I  could  not  stay  away  while  the 
souls  of  two  of  our  brethren,  as  we  may 
say,  are  on  trial."  Then  he  walked  to 
the  far  window  and  stood  with  his  gray 
hair  uncovered,  looking  out  into  the 
night.     They  knew  he  was  praying. 

The  door  opened  presently  and  Graah 
came  out.     The  evidence  was  over. 

"  How  goes  it,  Graah  ?  how  goes  it  ?" 
crowding  about  him  with  pale,  anxious 
faces. 

But  the  old  man  choked  when  he  tried 
to  answer,  and  shaking  his  head  hurried 
out. 

"It  be  the  boy.  He  wur  main  fond 
of  the  boy,"  they  said. 

They  could  see  Dallas  standing  for- 
ward alone,  his  head  held  up,  his  face  re- 
solved and  pale.  The  old  justice  peered 
over  the  papers,  his  head  shaking. 
These  prisoners  were  his  friends  and 
neighbors  :  he  had  prayed  to  God  that 
he  might  deal  justly  with  them.  In  his 
agitation  he  mixed  all  the  forms  of  his 
law-book  together  in  his  talk  :  there  was 
a  cool  smile  on  Bunsen's  face  listening 
to  him. 

Laddoun's  black,  bold  eyes,  yet  in  the 
shadow,  glanced  warily  around.  "  You 
cannot  commit  me  on  such  grounds. 
There  is  not  warrant  for  even  suspicion," 
he  said  defiantly,  wiping  his  mouth  again 
and  again. 

"  Young  man,  we  know  the  law,"  and 
the  justice  shuffled  his  rusty  wig  to  and 
fro  uneasily.  "  Is  there  no  farther  evi- 
dence against  Doctor  Laddoun  ?     I  can- 


not commit  him  on  the  mere  ground  of 
being  this  lad's  employer  and  most  kinu 
friend.      He  was  your  friend  ?" 

Dallas  looked  up.  "  He  helped  mc 
when  I  needed  help,"  he  said,  slowly. 

<'  There  is  no  evidence  against  me — 
none,"  Laddoun  cried,  vehemently.  The 
boy  turned  his  quiet  eyes  on  him.  There 
was  a  silence  for  a  moment :  those  who 
were  nearest  to  Dallas  saw  a  change 
come  on  his  face,  as  though  he  heard  a 
cry  which  they  could  not  hear.  Then 
there  was  a  sudden  flash  among  the 
wood  embers,  and  a  paper  which  haa 
fallen  among  them  burned  to  ashes. 

"  Stop  !"  said  Bunsen.  "  One  word 
with  this.  boy.  Have  jou  no  proof 
against  Laddoun,  Galbraith  ?" 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  only  by 
the  crisp  crackle  of  the  fire.  The  crowd 
in  the  hall  pressed  nearer,  and  held  their 
breaths  to  hear,  as  Dallas  spoke. 

"  No.     I  have  no  proof" 

"  Then  you  are  discharged,  Doctor 
Laddoun,"  said  the  justice.  "  For  you, 
Galbraith "  (the  boy  turned  and  faced 
him),  "j-ou  are  remanded  to  the  custody 
of  this  officer,  to  await  a  requisition  for 
trial  in  your  own  State."  The  old  man 
got  up,  pushing  back  his  spectacles  with 
a  shaking  hand,  and  then  leaned  forward 
with  both  hands  on  the  table.  "  From 
the  evidence  before  me,  I  have  little 
doubt  how  that  trial  will  end.  You 
have  had  a  chance  among  us  to —  We 
treated  you  as  one  of  our  own  sons. 
But  you  have  lost  your  chance  among 
men  now — and — "  He  broke  down 
here  altogether.  "  May  God  have  pity 
on  you,  Dallas  !" 

There  was  a  sudden  confusion,  and 
then  as  sudden  silence,  as  Laddoun 
turned  to  go  out  among  them,  a  free 
man.  Bunsen  nodded  and  congratulated 
him.  Laddoun  gave  a  loud,  uncadenced 
laugh,  which  broke  off  abruptly.  He 
almost  staggered  as  he  walked,  his  face 
purple,  fumbling  at  his  cravat.  They 
all  put  out  their  hands  and  pulled  him 
out  into  their  midst  ;  but  he  .said  noth- 
ing, glancing  back  uneasily  at  Dallas. 
Jim  Van  Zeldt  saw  Lizzy  stand  up  as 
Laddoun  came  out  and  was  welcomed 
back  among  them  ;  she  looked  at  him 


38 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


steadily  a  moment,  and  then  turned  and 
went  out  into  the  night  alone. 

Dallas  Galbraith,  with  the  detective's 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  stood  looking  at 
the  door  where  their  faces  were  massed, 
turned  again  towards  him  for  the  last 
time. 

He  had  had  his  chance  among  them, 
and  it  was  gone  for  ever. 

"I  did  the  best  I  could,"  he  said, 
putting  out  his  hand  before  him  like  a 
drowning  man.  Then  Bunsen  led  him 
out  through  the  dark  side-door,  and  they 
saw  him  no  more.  That  was  the  only 
stroke  he  made  against  the  tide  which 
was  washing  him  out — out. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  How  far  to  the  Stone-post  Farm 
now,  driver  ?" 

■•  Madam  Galbraith  owns  land  all 
along  the  road,  but  the  Stone-post  Farm 
is  in  the  next  county." 

"  She  was  a  Dour  by  birth  V 

The  driver  nodded  shortly. 

"  And  is  fond,  I  surmise,  of  gathering 
her  own  kin  about  her .?" 

"  I  reckon  she  is.  She  has  the  country 
hereabouts  swarming  with  'em.  Wim- 
men  like  her,  without  chick  or  child,  are 
full  of  their  whims." 

"  My  own  name  is  Dour,"  ventured 
the  young  man,  buttoning  his  worn  kid 
gloves  nervously  and  coloring  a  little. 

The  driver,  a  short,  pursy  man,  shot 
a  keen  glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
,  lad's  pale,  hatchet  face,  long  black  hair 
pushed  behind  his  ears,  and  well-kept 
clothes.  "  You  don't  favor  the  old 
Madam's  stock,  anyhow,"  indifferently  ; 
and,  flicking  his  leader's  right  ear,  he 
began  to  whistle. 

Paul  Dour,  who  was  pluming  himself 
inwardly  on  the  keenness  of  his  guess 
about  the  old  lady,  lapsed  into  silence. 
He  felt  himself  vaguely  to  be  snubbed. 
These  people  of  the  West  (as  he  called 
the  Ohio  valley  in  which  he  was  travel- 
ing) disappointed  him.  It  was  his  first 
journey  out  of  New  England  into  the 
raw,     uncultured    regions    which    form 


the  members  of  the  body  of  which  it  is 
the  brain.  He  had  intended  to  be  chari- 
table in  his  judgment  of  them — to  insult 
no  one  by  his  criticism — making  that 
allowance  for  all  short-comings,  social 
or  otherwise,  which  became  a  just,  clear- 
sighted philosopher  of  the  transcendental 
school.  Now,  Paul's  modicum  of  Con- 
cord philosophy  had  dribbled  down  to 
him  diluted  through  a  dozen  conduits. 
Consequently  it  proved  a  very  mild 
haschish  indeed  :  his  visions  were  few, 
though  his  mental  contortions  many. 
However,  he  had  none  the  less  faith  in 
it.  Here  was  the  leaven  which  was  to 
impregnate  the  mass  of  the  American 
people.  As  clay  ready  for  the  hands  of 
the  potter,  so  the  swarms  of  thriftless, 
inadequate  slaveholders,  and  the  brute 
physical  and  moneyed  force  of  the  Mid- 
dle States,  waited  for  the  informing  New 
England  mind.  Paul,  like  most  of  the 
lads  and  young  women  who  go  out  from 
New  England,  anticipated  a  great  deal 
of  quiet  amusement,  though  but  little 
additional  knowledge,  from  his  venture. 

But  it  was  dull  work  so  far.  The 
Pennsylvania  Dutch  he  had  found  curi- 
ously indifferent  to  the  informing  element 
which  was  to  vivify  them.  Could  this 
stolidity,  he  thought,  with  alarm,  extend 
farther?  His  self-complacency  was  un- 
usually thin-skinned:  every  pin-prick 
caused  a  painful  contraction.  The  very 
farm-houses  which  he  was  passing  now, 
with  their  solid  foothold  of  unhewn 
stone,  their  wide  acres,  their  giant  oaks 
pre-empting  the  earth,  as  it  were,  and 
all  the  material  good  that  therein  is, 
annoyed  him.  They  would  better  have 
befitted  his  own  section,  the  old  home- 
stead of  the  country,  than  did  its  flimsy 
white  wooden  tenements.  He  missed 
the  dissatisfied,  tentative  disquiet  to 
which  he  was  used,  in  this  warm,  mel- 
low air,  and  in  the  composed  faces  of 
the  people.  He  was  curiously  let  alone. 
Nobody  seemed  to  need  his  history  or 
his  thought.  The  people  were  decent, 
decorous,  minded  their  own  bu.,:hess. 
But  as  for  the  conversation,  what  seed 
of  progress  lay  in  chat  ?  Facts — facts — • 
fiicts— he  heard  nothing  else,  f  om  the 
New  York  auction  clerk  w  ho  had  crossed 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


39 


the  Jersey  ferry  with  him,  to  this  coach- 
load of  passengers  with  whom  he  traveled 
through  the  West  Virginia  hills.  What 
did  he  know  of  the  duty  on  iron,  or  the 
rates  of  grain  in  Chicago?  Yet,  he  was 
uneasy.  After  all,  could  such  things  as 
these  affect  the  daily  hves,  and  therefore 
tJie  souls,  of  the  great  commonplace 
masses  of  men,  more  than  the  subtle 
refinements  of  a  pure  philosophy  ?  These 
Western  people  had  a  strong  common- 
sense  code,  to  which  test  they  brought 
all  religion,  pohtics,  the  hfe  of  a  man,  or 
the  food  of  a  horse.  It  stunned  and 
batHed  him. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  to  a  fellow-passenger 
who  was  mounted  on  top  of  the  coach 
beside  him,  "we  generalize  too  much 
with  regard  to  the  Western  people  in 
New  England.  We  mass  them  in  our 
hypotheses  and  conclusions.  No  doubt 
there  are  curious  inflections  of  character 
in  different  States,  owing  to  climatic  in- 
fluences and  the  like." 

"There  are  only  two  influences  at 
work  on  men,  sir — God  and  the  devil," 
sharply,  jerking  the  flaps  of  his  black 
coat  together. 

"Oh!"  said  Paul.  He  scanned  the 
small,  loose-moulded  face  of  his  com- 
panion with  new  interest.  A  white 
neckcloth  and  intolerant  gray  eye  were 
tlie  salient  points  about  him. 

"  I  have  been  a  laborer  in  this  vine- 
yard a  great  many  years,  and  I  find 
nothing  so  pernicious  as  this  cant  of 
influences.  God  has  but  his  few  mes- 
sengers of  the  preached  word  (of  whom 
I  am  one  of  the  humblest),  but  Satan 
lies  in  wait  at  every  corner.  You  must 
forgive  me,  sir,"  more  gently ;  "but  I  un- 
derstood from  you  that  you  were'  going 
into  one  of  his  pitfalls  unawares,  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  warn  you.  You  are  young 
and  ingenuous :  pardon  me." 

"I  am  going  to  a  friend's — Madam 
Galbraith's,"  said  Dour,  with  a  little 
vanity,  at  naming  a  power  in  the  land. 

The  clergyman  shook  his  head,  and 
momentarily  closed  his  eyes.  "She  is 
a  relative  of  yours .''" 

"That  I  cannot  tell.  The  truth  is, 
I  have  never  seen  her,  and  would  be 
glad  of  any  information  you  could  give 


me.      My  visit  has  altogether  the  flavor 
of  an  adventure." 

The  clergyman  opened  his  eyes  curi- 
ously. Bob  Penly,  the  driver,  turned 
half-way  round,  whip  in  hand. 

"I  graduated  in  a  college  in  Massa- 
chusetts two  weeks  ago,"  proceeded 
Paul.  "There  was  a  classmate  of  mine 
from  this  neighborhood,  and  through 
him  I  heard  of  her  as  a  probable  rela- 
tive. I  wrote  to  inquire,  and  for  reply 
I  received  an  odd  epistle.  I  have  it 
here."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
large  sheet  of  thick  paper,  on  which  these 
worc's  were  scrawled  in  a  masculine  hand : 
"Sir:  John  Bligh.  whom  I  know  to  be 
a  truthful  lad,  and  moderate  in  his  state- 
ments, apprises  me  that  you  are  a  Dour, 
and  also  a  poor  young  man,  and  deserving. 
It  occurs  to  me  that  you  are  a  grandson 
of  Peter  Dour's.  He  emigrated  from 
this  county  to  Vermont  in  my  father's 
time,  for  what  purpose  God,  and  his  own 
cracked  brain,  only  knew.  Whether  you 
are  or  not,  I  will  be  pleased  if  you  will 
come  to  the  Stone-post  Farm.  You  are 
invited  to  remain  during  a  fortnight. 
We  can  in  that  time  determine  whether 
a  longer  stay  would  be  agreeable  to  you 
or  me.  As  you  come  for  my  whim,  you 
will  permit  me  to  pay  for  it. 

\Signed'\ 

"  Hannah  Dour  Galbraith." 

"John  BHgh  was  my  classmate,"  ex- 
plained the  lad.  "  He  said  she  was  an 
eccentric  old  woman  and  wealthy,  and 
it  might  be  the  making  of  me.  Be- 
sides, I  had  never  seen  the  West  ;  so  I 
came.  Some  men  might  have  been  of- 
fended at  her  bluntness.     But  I  liked  it." 

"  She  is  a  wealthy  woman,"  said  the 
preacher,  beating  his  knee  with  the  let- 
ter ;  "  very  wealthy.  She  has  said  to 
her  soul,  '  Soul,  take  thine  ease :  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry.'  " 

"  She  has  said  it  to  a  lot  beside  her 
soul,"  said  Penly,  pulling  his  reins  ener- 
getically. "  There's  as  many  poor  as 
rich  fed  at  her  table." 

"  She  paid  my  expenses,"  resumed 
Paul,  hastily.  "  I'm  poor,  as  Bligh  said," 
with  a  frank  laugh.  "  As  for  the  deserv- 
ing, I  hope  the  old  lady  may  find  me  so." 

"  She  is  not  chary  of  her  money,"  re- 


40 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


sumed  the  clergyman,  in  a  tone  of  pa- 
tient mildness.  "  She  sends  it  where 
her  whim  blows,  like  the  wind  scatter- 
ing the  leaves  yonder.  Yet  it  is  the 
Lord's  :  she  is  but  a  steward.  Robert 
Penly,"  severely.  "  And  with  it  she 
lures  young  men  like  this  over  her 
threshold,  where  there  is  card-playing 
and  dancing  continually.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  judge,"  turning  again  to  Paul, 
"  but  I  never  pass  the  boundary  of  her 
land,  and  look  at  the  house  perched  on 
the  mountains,  that  I  do  not  think  of 
that  other  Woman  of  old,  clothed  in  scar- 
let, who  sat  upon  the  seven  hills,  drunken 
with  the  blood  of  the  saints." 

Bob  made  an  angry  cut  at  the  off 
horse.  It  was  a  rigid  Presbyterian  com- 
munity, and  Bob  himself  carried  about 
the  bag  on  Sunday  in  a  country  church, 
so  that  he  felt  his  mouth  in  a  measure 
gagged. 

"  I've  heerd  she  seldom  goes  to  church, 
and  never  gives  a  red  to  missions  or  the 
like,"  at  last  he  said,  compromisingly. 

The  preacher  bowed  assentingly. 

But  Bob  could  not  forget  a  loan  that 
had  been  made  to  him  the  winter  that 
he  was  down  with  the  rheumatism,  when 
the  twins  were  born — how  the  queer  old 
Madam  had  paid  his  rent,  and  sent  in 
pork  enough  to  last  until  spring.  "  Take 
that  filthy  plug  out  of  your  mouth,  Rob- 
ert Penly,"  she  said,  "and  keep  it  out 
until  you  have  paid  me."  Bob  burst 
into  a  chuckle. 

"  Well,  she's  a  law  to  herself,  I  reckon," 
he  said,  "  and  to  other  folks  too.  Cap- 
tain Galbraith,  we  call  her.  My  wife, 
now,  thinks  there's  salt  enough  in  her 
big  body  to  savor  the  whole  county. 
Doctors  differ,  you  see,  parson." 

The  clergyman  rebuked  the  familiarity 
only  by  silence.  "  I  would  be  sorry," 
he  said,  mildly,  turning  to  Paul,  "  that 
you  would  suppose  me  a  common  gos- 
sip, used  to  malign  my  neighbors.  But 
tlie  house  to  which  you  are  going  is  the 
only  one  in  the  neighborhood  where  the 
amusements  and  corruptions  of  the  world 
find  entrance,  and  Madam  Galbraith' s 
position  and  generosity  make  her  exam- 
ple weighty,  as  you  see.  Besides,  the 
power  of  her  tongue — "  he  added,  in  a 


lower  voice.  "  Her  words  burn  like 
scalding  drops,  at  times,"  and  his  pale 
face  grew  a  shade  paler  ;  from  some  bit- 
ter remembrance,  Paul  fancied. 

They  fell  into  an  awkward  silence  after 
that,  only  broken  by  Bob's  persistent 
whistle.  The  road  wound  circuitously 
up  and  down  steep  hills,  passing  by 
lonely  farms,  clusters  of  two-storied  brick 
houses  huddled  on  the  edge  of  every 
water-course,  each  shouldering  the  name 
of  a  city,  then  out  again  through  the 
great  sweep  of  forest,  in  which  Paul  was 
doubtful  whether  he  might  confidently 
look  to  find  wigwams  or  not. 

The  early  November  frosts  had  brown- 
ed and  rotted  the  crimson  and  yellow 
leaves  of  the  mountain  foliage,  and  left 
but  the  shape  and  grouping  of  the  trees, 
stripped  of  their  cover  of  color,  sharply 
defined  against  the  sky:  an  infinite  study 
of  form  alone.  Mile  after  mile  this  rare 
limning  edged  the  mountain  horizon,  an 
endless  variety  of  simple,  noble  shapes 
outlined  in  black  upon  an  amber,  crystal- 
clear  background.  For  the  Indian  sum- 
mer still  lent  the  red  and  golden  tints  of 
August  to  the  sky  and  to  the  haze  which 
hung  half-way  up  the  hills,  escaping  from 
the  chilled,  muddy  creeks  below. 

At  one  of  the  farm-houses  the  clergy- 
man alighted,  carpet-bag  in  hand :  he 
held  up  his  hand  to  Paul,  who  shook  it 
heartily. 

"  You  will  not  take  my  warning  amiss  ? 
You  are  on  the  Galbraith  lands  now." 

Dour  glanced  hurriedly  at  the  wide 
creek  on  one  side,  and  the  shelving  moun- 
tain-sides, blood-red  with  iron,  on  the 
other,  with  a  quicker  beat  of  his  pulses. 
What  if  the  terrible  old  woman  made  his 
fortune,  after  all  ?  For  if  his  inner  eye 
kept  a  fixed  regard  on  the  pure  Central 
Truths,  his  outer  gray  ones  had  as  shrewd 
respect  for  next  year's  income. 

"  No  fear,"  loftily.  "  The  old  lady 
shall  not  prove  my  Mephistopheles.  But 
we  will  get  on  admirably,  I  dare  say.  I 
can  accept  all  natures,  provided  they  have 
the  human  element.  I3hgh  had  an  essay 
of  mine — Psychical  Axioms  ;  and  I  think 
she  has  seen  it,  and  hence  my  invitation," 
blushing  ingenuously  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  preacher  shook  his  head.     «  No. 


DALLAS   GALBRAITIL 


41 


You're  a  Dour,  that's  all.  She  has 
never  been  able  to  find  kinsfolk  of  her 
own  name.  Psychical  Axioms,  eh  ?" 
and  with  an  amused  laugh  he  notlded, 
and,  jumping  the  worm  fence,  turned  into 
a  stubble-field. 

"  Considerin'  the  season,  he  might  have 
wished  you  a  jolly  Thanksgivin',"  said 
Bob,  dryly,  as  the  red  coach  lumbered 
oif  again  up  the  hillside. 

"  They  keep  Thanksgiving  to-morrow 
at  the  Stone-post  Farm  .^" 

"  I  reckon,"  with  a  nod  that  was  as 
emphatic  as  an  oath.  "  Don't  you  be 
misled  by  him,"  with  a  contemptuous 
nod  backwards  to  the  spare  black  figure 
in  the  field.  "  Parsons  is  good  in  their 
way,  but  they're  narrer.  That's  it. 
They're  narrer.  They  don't  see  with- 
out glasses.  Now  Madam,  she  makes 
the  whole  country-side  keep  Christmas 
and  Thanksgive  along  with  her.  I'd 
not  Hke  to  count  the  bar'ls  of  flour  and 
turkeys  that  left  her  place  yesterday." 

"  No  children,  you  say  ?" 

Bob  shook  his  head.  Paul  was  young. 
What  if  this  respectable  old  ogress  found 
him  her  nearest  kinsman — and  heir  ? 

"  A  widow  V 

"  No.  Old  Mr.  Galbraith,  he's  there. 
It's  he  that  says  where  the  flour  and 
turkeys  is  most  needed." 

«  I  remember  a  Galbraith  once,"  said 
Paul,  half  aloud,  reflectively.  "A  boy 
of  about  my  own  age.  He  was  tried  in 
New  York  when  I  was  there  in  the 
Christmas  holidays.  My  uncle  defended 
him.     But  that  was  years  ago." 

"  It  was,  now  ?"  Bob  dearly  loved  a 
story,  but  he  scorned  to  betray  too  ready 
an  interest,  the  speaker  being  but  a  lad. 
"  And  his  name  was  Galbraith  ?  Like 
enough.  They're  plenty  as  huckleber- 
ries. But  they're  decentish  folks,  ord'- 
narily.    And  your  uncle  got  him  off,  hey  ?" 

"  No ;  he  did  not.  It  was  a  clear  case 
of  forgery.  But  my  uncle  was  curiously 
interested  in  the  boy,  I  remember." 
Dour  was  silent,  recalling  with  an  effort 
the  particulars  of  the  old,  painful  story, 
but  he  gratified  Bob  with  no  more  of  it ; 
and  Penly,  after  filling  up  the  time  with 
a  critical  squint  at  the  scenery,  stroking 
the  dust  from  the  brown  terry  waistcoat 


that  covered  his  fat  little  paunch,  and 
glancing  at  his  pinchbeck  watch,  began 
again  : 

"  We're  a  bit  behind  time.  That  near 
horse,  he's  off  his  feed  now.  Well,  the 
old  couple — the  Madam  and  her  hus- 
band— had  a  son  once.  I  didn't  tell  you. 
But  he  was  like  a  good  many  of  youi 
high-bred  colts — he  wasn't  worth  noth- 
ing. They  raised  him  too' much,  hkely. 
He  was  fed  and  slept  accordin'  to  rule. 
When  he  was  a  baby,  she  never  hired  a 
nurse,  I've  heerd  say:  no  woman  should 
touch  him  but  herself  So  he  slipped 
the  tether  and  made  off.  He  married  a 
silly  girl  of  this  neighborhood  and  took 
her  along.      It  was  an  awful  muddle." 

Paul's  curiosity,  always  alert,  was 
roused.     "  How  did  it  end  .'"'  he  said. 

"  I  knowed  young  Tom  Galbraith 
well,"  said  Bob,  breaking  into  a  com- 
fortable trot  of  talk,  that  kept  time  with 
his  horses'  tramp.  "  There  wasn't  a 
man  about  the  drinking-shops  and  sta- 
bles in  the  county  that  didn't  know  him. 
So  I  never  looked  to  hear  any  good  of 
him.  He  took  his  wife  acrost  the  moun- 
tains, East,  and  there  they  scuffed  along 
from  hand  to  mouth,  I've  heerd  since, 
till  he  died.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
outcome  in  his  wife.  She  was  a  Jen- 
nings— an  orphan  girl.  So  she  fought 
along  bravely,  sewin'  and  the  like,  for 
her  and  the  boy.  She  never  wrote  to 
the  Madam,  even  when  the  child  was 
born." 

"  There  is  a  boy,  then  ?"  said  Paul, 
coloring  as  his  boyish  visions  of  heirship 
suddenly  vanished. 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  boy.  But  he's 
dead.  There's  somethin'  cur'ous  about 
that  boy's  death,  a  mystery  like,  that 
nobody  knows  the  bottom  of  but  the  old 
Madam.  They  say  his  mother  put  him 
to  dig  in  the  coal-pits  at  Scranton,  and 
that  the  choke-damp  killed  him.  But 
it's  a  dark  story  through  and  through." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then 
began  again  in  a  louder  voice.  "  Tom 
Galbraith's  boy  would  have  been  wel- 
come here  by  high  and  low.  He  might 
have  drunk  and  flung  out  his  money  like 
water,  as  his  father  did  before  him,  but 
he'd  have  come  to  nothing  worse,  coal- 


42 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


pits  or  not.  'Tain't  in  the  blood.  It 
was  the  want  of  brains  as  ailed  Tom, 
but  he  was  as  honest  as  his  mother  ;  and 
she — well,  it's  likely  she  is  an  old  hea- 
then, as  the  parson  says.  But  I've  ex- 
perienced the  world  this  fifty  years,  and 
she's  as  clean  a  card  as  I've  known  in 
the  pack,  take  her  altogether." 

"And  Tom  Galbraith's  widow  ?"  bring- 
ing him  back  to  the  road. 

"  Well,  she's  back  now — Mary  Jen- 
nings. She's  changed  her  name  again. 
She  married  a  Captain  Duftield,  East 
there,  some  do  say,  to  save  her  and 
her  boy  from  starving,  but  some  say  it 
was  after  the  boy's  death.  I  don't 
know.  I  think  it's  likely  she  wanted 
somebody  to  trim  off  her  pink  face  and 
curls,  as  poor  Tom  never  could  do.  She 
was  mighty  fond  of  her  pretty  face, 
Mary  Jennings  was.  But  the  story  goes 
that  Duffield  used  her  like  a  devil. 
However,  lie's  dead.  Only  a  month  or 
two  ago.  And  hearin'  that,  the  old 
Madam  sent  for  her.  My  wife  says 
slie'll  be  there  this  Thanksgiving." 

"  To-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow.  She's  of  a  differ- 
ent stock  from  the  Galbraiths,  you  see. 
Well,"  hesitating,  "she's  a  sort  of  far- 
off  kin  of  my  own.  But  that  don't 
matter.  The  old  Madam  would  take 
her  out  of  the  coal-pits  themselves,  pur- 
vided  she  was  honest.  But  she's  a 
terrible  judge  when  a  man  makes  a  slip," 
shaking  his  head.  "  There's  things  I 
could  tell  you —  I  hope  God  'ill  be  slacker 
in  judgment  than  them  that's  like  her 
here." 

They  were  entering  the  crooked 
streets  of  a  little  village  on  the  side  of 
tlie  hill,  and  Bob  blew  his  horn  shrilly. 

"Now  I've  got  a  load  to  take  up 
here,"  he  said  confidentially  to  Paul ; 
"  the  Rattlins.  Well,  they  are  a  lot ! 
They're  going  to  spend  Thanksgiving  at 
the  Farm.  Along  with  you.  They  go 
once  a  year,  and  it  lasts  two  weeks. 
There's  eight  of  them.  He's  a  preacher, 
Rattlin  is,"  jerking  out  the  sentences  be- 
tween the  jarring  of  the  wheels.  "And 
eight  of  them  to  feed.  There's  a  tough 
fight  for  you  !  I  hope  you'll  be  kind  to 
the  little  man,  sir,"  slacking  the  pace  of 


his  horses  to  a  walk  as  they  went  up 
the  hill.  "  This  is  his  year's  one  holi- 
day, I  take  it.  He  has  three  p'ints  for 
preaching,  lyin'  within  fifteen  miles,  an' 
he  gets  a  bare  five  hundred  from  'em, 
and  that  but  half  paid  in  ;  and  preachers 
can't  turn  an  honest  penny  at  odd  jobs, 
like  the  rest  of  us.  Consekently,  they're 
half  clothed,  them  Rattlins,  and  whole 
starved.  Lord,  here  he  is  !  Like  a  little 
cricket,  as  usual.  Good  morning,  sir," 
touching  his  cloth  cap  respectfully,  and 
drawing  rein. 

A  little  man,  hardly  as  high  as  the 
wheel,  stood  suddenly  beside  it,  rubbing 
his  hands,  his  thin  cheeks  red  and  wet 
with  perspiration. 

"  You  did  not  forget  us,  Robert  ?" 
panting  for  breath.  "We've  been  on 
the  watch  for  two  hours.  I  really 
thought  you  had  forgotten  this  was 
the  day  we  were  to  go.  Though 
that's  hardly  likely.  We've  been  up 
since  sunrise,  so  as  to  be  quite  ready. 
We'll  not  detain  you,  Robert.  Tlie 
baggage  is  on  the  steps." 

"  We're  behind  time,  sir.  As  I  was 
saying  just  now,  this  here  horse  is  off 
his  feed." 

"  Off  his  feed,  eh  ?"  an.xiously.  "  Let 
me  examine  him,"  applying  his  ear  to 
the  horse's  chest.  "  He  is  hoarse,  Robert. 
He  ought  not  to  be  out  in  this  chilly 
air.  I'd  recommend  covering  his  breast 
immediately.  I  have  a  blanket  that  I'll 
lend  you  for  the  purpose.  I'll  make  a 
short  cut  across  the  fields  for  it." 

"If  they  have  one,  it's  about  as  much 
as  they  do  have,"  said  Bob,  looking 
gravely  after  the  retreating  figure,  with 
the  thin  black  summer  coat  fluttering 
about  it.  "  My  wife  says  they  all  slept 
under  newspapers  last  winter.  Not  bad 
kivers,"  as  Paul  laughed.  "  But  the 
world  owes  that  little  man  a  decent  keep. 
Why,  I'll  bet  you  it's  months  since  he's 
tasted  meat ;  and  as  for  debt — Lord,  sir, 
they  owes  for  their  bread  for  months 
back.  Skinner  hasn't  the  heart  to  press 
'em.      Everybody  Hkes  them  Rattlins." 

The  coach  had  rumbled  through  a 
narrow  lane,  and  drew  near  to  a  little 
box  of  a  house,  with  the  usual  patch  of 
a  lot  beside  it  filled  with  tomatoes,  be'ts, 


DALLAS  GALBRAITIL 


43 


and  a  row  of  parsley.  The  house  was 
just  closed,  and  Mrs.  Rattlin  brandish- 
ed a  key  which  was  nearly  as  big  as  it- 
self. The  tide  of  Rattlins  ebbed  and 
flowed  about  the  great  hair  trunk  that 
was  set  down  directly  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  When  the  coach  came  in 
sight  they  hallooed  and  swarmed  over  it, 
over  the  fence,  the  two  babies  scaling 
their  motlier's  plump  little  sides  until 
she  was  forced  to  sit  down  and  relieve 
her  own  turmoil  of  mind  by  slapping  and 
kissing  tliem. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lot  ?"  said 
Bob,  whipping  up  the  horses.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  little  woman  ?  Ton 
my  soul,  she's  good  enough  to  eat  ! 
They're  all  as  round  and  fat  and  jolly  as 
ripe  mush-millions,  and  how  they  get 
jolliness  or  fat  out  of  the  skimped  life 
they  lead  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  Jest 
as  mush-millions  get  juice  out  of  sandy 
sile,  likely.  Well,  here  you  are,  young 
'uns  !  Jest  hold  the  reins  a  minute," 
throwing  them  to  Paul.  "  I'll  load  this 
wagon  myself,"  scrambling  down  among 
them,  and  beginning  to  straj)  the  hair- 
enormity  on  behind,  and  to  throw  in 
various  odd  bundles  of  shoes  and  frocks 
tied  up  in  gingham  handkerchiefs,  over 
which  Mrs.  Rattlin  anxiously  presided, 
while  the  preacher  himself,  with  one  of 
the  boys,  strapped  the  white  worn 
blanket  over  the  horse's  chest.  Then 
he  felt  its  ribs,  and  went  about  among 
the  other  horses,  his  head  knowingly  on 
one  side,  looking  into  their  mouths,  feel- 
ing their  flanks  and  backs,  followed  by 
an  admiring  regiment  of  boys. 

"  You've  some  fine  stock  here,  Robert, 
fine  stock !  I  used  to  be  a  judge  of  a 
nice  animal:  well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
owned  a  good  mare  once,  myself — a 
very  good  mare." 

"That's  the  bay,  Jenny,  at  Whit- 
crosses,"  said  Bob,  in  the  deferential 
tone  which  he  always  used  to  the  little 
man.  "I  heern  she  was  yourn  once, 
sir." 

"True,  true.  I  often  go  down  to 
Whitcrosses,  and  she  knows  me  yet,  I 
really  believe.  Yes,  I  was  as  fond  of 
Tenny  as  of  one  of  these  little  chaps. 
But  it  wasn't  convenient  for  us  to  keep 


her,"  with  a  momentary  gravity.  "  But  1 
think,  Penly,"  energetically,  "there's  few 
men  can  live  to  my  age  with  eight  chil- 
dren, and  say  they  have  lost  nothing  but 
a  horse,"  the  thin  little  face  reddening 
with  a  sudden  brightness,  which  made 
even  Paul,  up  on  the  box,  nod  and  smile 
down  to  him,  and  feel  a  sudden  warmth 
about  the  air. 

He  had  a  New  Englander's  quick  eye, 
and  he  was  used  to  petty  scrapings  and 
makeshifts  of  economy.  He  could  see 
the  colored  shirt  peeping  out  under 
Ratthn's  old-fashioned  Hnen  collar:  see 
the  seams  where  his  trowsers  had  been 
turned  wrongside  before  for  the  two  big- 
ger boys  (worn  terribly  thin  under  the 
knees) :  he  knew  at  a  glance  that  the 
pink  ribbons  were  dyed  at  home  which 
fluttered  over  Rosy  and  Gerty's  pretty, 
shy  faces,  yonder  by  the  fence.  All  of 
their  clothes  were  for  summer  wear :  they 
had  no  business  to  be  wearing  them  now : 
they  had  no  business  to  be  laughing  and 
poking  fun  at  each  other,  at  all;  but 
they  did  it,  and  that  in  a  fashion  which 
showed  Paul  that  it  was  a  practice  to 
which  they  were  born,  and  not  a  weak- 
ness of  the  moment.  The  world,  Bob 
said,  "didn't  give  them  a  decent  keep," 
yet  they  made  much  of  the  old  monster 
every  day,  took  it  by  the  ears,  and 
warmed  their  hearts  over  it,  as  if  it  had 
been  Kriss-Kingle  himself  with  arms  and 
back  loaded  with  goodies  for  them. 

It  was  contagious,  somehow.  Before 
he  knew  what  he  was  about,  Paul  had 
the  reins  tied  and  was  down  among 
them,  joking  with  Rattlin,  packing  in 
baby  after  baby  among  the  straw  which 
filled  the  bottom  of  the  coach,  scram- 
bling over  the  boys,  and  quite  aware 
that  this  expedition  to  the  Stone-post 
Farm  was  such  a  holiday  as  came  but 
once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  They  were 
all  in  at  last,  even  to  the  blushing  Rosy 
and  Gerty  (Paul  blessed  their  untimely 
gingham  frocks,  for  how  else  would  he 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  plump,  pink  arms 
and  shoulders  i')  Then  he  shut  tlie  door, 
and  climbed  up  to  the  top  again,  where 
Mr.  Rattlin  and  Bob  were  seated,  and 
away  they  bowled,  confident  that  there 
was  as  much  fun  and  good-humor  and 


44 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


chubbiness  and  rosy  cheeks  and  ribbons 
boxed  up  below,  as  any  five  feet  square 
of  an  earthly  coach  could  hold. 

The  afternoon  sky  clouded  over,  and 
the  whole  temper  of  the  day  became 
gray  and  gusty,  but  Bob  told  his  raciest 
stories,  and  the  horses  tramped  along  as 
if  they  had  drunk  spiced  cordial  instead 
of  water  at  the  inn;  even  Paul  broke 
out  into  some  hearty  college  song ;  and 
everybody,  Penly  and  the  Rattlins,  girls 
and  boys,  caught  the  chorus  in  time,  and 
roared  it  out  together  until  the  hickory 
woods,  on  each  side,  rung.  Then  they 
came  to  the  half-way-house,  where  the 
horses  were  changed.  Presently,  a  great 
cracked  gong  sounded,  and  Bob  went 
in  to  his  dinner.  Dour  was  half-famished 
with  his  long  fast,  but  he  shook  his  head 
when  the  landlady  called  to  him.  He 
could  not  go  in  and  leave  the  wistful 
little  man  and  his  party  outside  nibbling 
from  their  paper  of  stale  crackers  on 
the  porch.  He  went  in  to  the  grocery 
and  bought  some  cheese,  however,  and 
tliey  made  a  regular  picnic  of  it. 

"/  never  take  dinner  at  a  tavern," 
said  one  of  the  boys,  coming  back  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  from  gravely 
inspecting  the  happy  eating  people  within. 

"Traveling  is  very  expensive,  Mr. 
Dour,"  said  Mrs.  Rattlin. 

To  which  Paul  replied  that  it  was, 
and  that  he  generally  was  provided  with 
crackers,  and  not  obliged  to  depend  on 
the  inns  ;  and  then  they  all  got  into  the 
coach  again,  Paul  crowding  in  between 
Miss  Rosy  and  the  youngest  boy. 

However,  at  the  next  village  where 
they  stopped,  a  man  came  out  of  the 
post-office  and  put  a  bank-note  in  Mr. 
Rattlin's  hands.  Openly,  before  them 
all.  He  made  a  little  speech,  too,  say- 
ing that  it  was  a  small  Thanksgiving 
testimonial  from  some  of  his  ilock,  and 
tliat  they  wished  him  many  happy  re- 
turns of  the  day ;  at  which  Mr.  Rattlin 
grew  red  and  choked,  and  was  as  full 
of  eager  gratitude  as  though  they  did 
not  owe  him  two  quarters'  salary. 

"It  will  pay  Skinner,  Gerty!"  Paul 
heard  Mrs.  Rattlin  whisper,  with  her 
little  joyous  chirrup  of  a  laugh. 

But  it  did  not  pay  Skinner;  for  at  the 


very  next  inn  Rattlin  got  down  with  a 
good  deal  of  excitement  in  his  manner, 
and  presently  they  were  all  brought  in 
to  a  stew  of  canned  oysters,  such  as 
seldom  was  eaten  before :  Penly  and 
Dour,  the  inn-keeper  and  all ;  Mr.  Rat- 
thn  himself  going  out  with  a  soup- 
plateful  to  the  old  ostler  who  was 
watering  the  horses.  Mrs.  Rattlin,  after 
the  first  wince  of  chagrin  in  her  blue 
ej'es,  was  the  very  life  of  the  party.  This 
carnal  dissipation  gave  a  sort  of  wicked 
flavor  to  the  day,  which  was  very  rehsh- 
ing  :  they  mounted  into  the  coach,  noisier 
and  more  reckless  than  ever,  to  finish 
the  journey,  the  men  going  on  top  again. 

Evening  was  closing  in  before  they 
entered  the  Stone-post  Farm. 

"  You're  on  the  old  de-main  now," 
said  Bob,  pointing  with  his  whip  to  the 
low  fences  made  of  stone  blocks,  with 
rails  between,  which  gave  a  name  to  the 
homestead.  "  You've  been  crossing  bits 
of  the  Dour  land  all  day,  spread  out 
like  a  spider's  claws,  but  you're  in  the 
heart  of  it  now.  The  Dours  were 
among  the  first  settlers  in  this  West 
Virginia  country,  you  see :  all  big,  strong- 
jinted  men,  I've  heerd:  they  had  to 
hold  their  ground  agin  the  wild  beasts 
and  Indians.  Yon's  the  fort  they  built 
in  the  old  times  for  safety,  when  there 
was  a  rising  among  the  savages,"  nod- 
ding to  a  low,  mud-plastered  range  of 
buildings  on  the  slope  to  the  left.  "  The 
Madam,  she's  the  last  of  them:  she's 
got  the  land,  and  she's  got  the  pluck 
and  the  grit  of  all  the  old  Dours  in  one. 
Yon's  the  house,"  pulling  up  to  give 
effect  to  the  first  view. 

Paul  looked  slightingly  at  this  type 
of  an  old  Western  homestead,  that  had 
grown  up  in  the  hollow  of  the  mountain 
as  slowly  as  the  gigantic  oaks  that  stood 
sentinel  about  it,  and,  apparently,  with  no 
better  defined  idea  of  architecture  than 
they.  It  belonged,  too,  as  much  to  the 
ground  on  which  it  stood:  the  great 
blocks  of  gray  stone  came  from  the 
mountain,  and  the  brick,  turned  a  dull 
brown  through  long  rain  and  sun,  from 
the  soil  under  their  feet.  It  stretched, 
with  its  barns  and  out-buildings,  over 
the  space  of  a  small  hamlet.     The  land- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


45 


scape,  with  its  broad  fields,  frequent  water- 
courses, and  sharp  mountain  ranges,  dif- 
fered from  the  miniature  farms  of  New 
England :  to  Paul's  eye  it  lacked  refine- 
ment ;  the  house  finished  and  gave  ex- 
pression to  it  all,  as  a  face  to  a  body. 
It  was  liberal,  large,  hospitable;  and  it 
was  content  to  be  nothing  better  than  it 
was  for  ages  to  come. 

Coming  nearer,  Mr.  Rattlin  nodded 
with  keen  admiration.  '•  That  is  what  I 
call  a  picture,"  he  said,  and  Dour  could 
not  contradict  him.  The  great  valley 
below  lay  in  shadow,  but  the  evening 
light  rested  on  the  mountain  summit 
and  on  the  old  house  at  its  base.  Its 
gray  and  ruddy  brown  walls  harmonized 
so  cheerfully  with  the  natural  tints  of 
the  ground  and  rocks,  that  Nature,  Paul 
fancied,  had  thrust  out  welcoming  hands 
to  draw  it  into  closer  companionship. 
The  warped  black  shingles  of  the  roof 
were  crusted  and  edged  with  moss,  and 
the  wild  ivy  had  climbed  with  its  per- 
sistent three-fingered  leaves  over  its 
sides  until  they  were  covered  with 
masses  of  clear  crimson.  The  windows, 
deep  set  in  the  stone,  began  to  glow  red 
from  within  in  the  chilly  evening,  and 
rifts  and  trails  of  bituminous  smoke 
poured  from  the  wide  stacks  of  chimneys, 
yellow  and  black,  across  the  pale  sky. 

"There  she  is  herself!"  cried  Bob, 
pointing  to  a  short,  largely-built  woman 
crossing  a  field,  ploughed  for  wheat,  with 
slow,  steady  pace,  a  stick  in  her  hand, 
with  which  she  seemed  to  be  testing  the 
depth  of  the  furrow.  "She  goes  about 
her  farms  hke  an  officer  on  guard — the 
Lord  help  Joe  Driver  if  them  furrows 
ain't  straight!  She'll  keep  going  till 
old  Death  taps  her  on  the  back,  I  reckon, 
some  day,  in  her  walk."  But  he  stopped 
joking,  and  put  on  a  grave  face  when 
Madam  Galbraith,  perceiving  the  coach, 
waved  her  stick  for  it  to  stop,  and  came 
down  the  hillside  towards  them. 

Paul  had  time  to  look  at  her  curi- 
ously :  old  as  she  was,  her  step  was  finn 
and  ft-ee  as  an  Indian's:  her  dress  was 
of  coarse  gray  cloth,  the  upper  part  cut 
like  a  man's  coat,  her  head  covered  with 
a  flannel  hood:  she  halted  at  a  wide 
opening    in    the    road,  and    beckoned 


them  to  come  closer.  Bob  drove  up 
slowly. 

"Who  have  you  here,  Robert  Penly?" 
in  a  loud,  clear  voice.  "Tut,  tut!"  tap- 
ping on  the  side  of  the  coach ;  a  pair 
of  keen  eyes,  under  shaggy  white  brows, 
inspecting  the  passengers  inside  and  out 
rapidly.  Paul  kept  silence,  not  deeming 
it  fit  that  his  introduction  should  be 
given  in  this  informal  manner. 

"Mr.  Rattlin,  eh?"  as  the  little  man 
jumped  down  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 
"You  are  welcome,  sir.  I  think  good 
comes  under  my  roof  with  you."  She 
bowed  as  she  said  it,  with  a  curious 
stately  grace  in  her  cumbersome  body. 
She  passed  over  Dour  without  notice, 
and  thrust  her  head  inside  with  a  strange 
anxiety,  he  fancied,  in  her  face,  shutting 
her  wide  mouth  grimly.  The  high-fea- 
tured, large-boned  woman,  standing  in 
the  rough  road  and  twilight,  had  seemed 
repellant  and  coarse  to  Dour ;  but  when 
she  pushed  back  the  flannel  hood,  ex- 
posing the  swarthy  clean  skin,  broad 
forehead  and  deep-set  eyes  before  which 
he  quailed,  he  thought  it,  reluctantly,  a 
grand  head,  and  framed  aptly  in  the 
reverend  mass  of  silvery  gray  hair. 

u  Ha — women  folks  ?  women  folks  ?" 
as  a  babble  of  greeting  welcomed  her 
from  inside.  "  And  that's  all  ?  Well, 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  all,  youngsters. 
You'll  always  seem  like  a  girl  to  me, 
Mrs.  Rattlin,  in  spite  of  your  brood. 
Go  on.  Up  to  the  house.  It  ought  to 
be  like  home  to  you  by  this  time.  If 
you  think  of  anything  which  would  make 
you  give  thanks  more  heartily,  let  me 
know  it ;"  and  patting  the  head  of  the 
nearest  boy,  she  turned  away  from  them. 

"  Stop,  Penly !  What  does  your  com- 
pany mean  by  driving  such  miserable 
hacks  as  these  ?"  touching  the  horses 
with  her  stick.  "  They  are  a  disgrace 
to  the  country.  Stock  that  ought  to  have 
been  out  to  grass  years  ago !  Tell  them 
it  must  be  stopped,  or  I'll  give  them 
winter  fodder  for  their  cattle,  and" — low- 
ering her  voice — "  see  that  they  miss 
their  mail  contracts  next  year !"  with  a 
cynical  laugh.  "  Drive  on,  now.  No, 
Mr.  Rattlin  ;  I  beg  that  you  will  go  back 
to    your   seat.      I'll   walk   alone — walk 


46 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


alone,    and  lifting  her  stick  by  way  of   | 
farewell,  she  struck  across  the  field  again. 

Young  Dour  smiled  superciliously. 

"  She  has  been  used  to  the  charge  of 
J.  large  tenantry,"  said  Rattlin,  jealously. 
"  It  has  roughened  the  husk  a  little, 
but  she  is  discomposed  to-day.  Usu- 
ally, it  is  like  coming  to  a  Christmas  fire 
TO  be  near  her.  A  great,  genial,  tender 
heart  she  has,  that  woman." 

"  She's  disapp'inted,"  Bob  broke  out, 
''in  not  seeing  Mary  Jennings.  She 
sets  such  store  by  the  memory  of  that 
boy  of  hers  that  even  the  woman  who 
forgot  him  is  dear  to  her  because  she 
was  once  his  wife." 

Madam  Galbraith  was  joined  at  the 
end  of  the  field  by  a  gentleman,  who  held 
tlie  turnstile  for  her  to  pass  through, 
and  then  walked^*  silently  beside  her 
towards  the  house,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him :  a  tall,  spare  man,  care- 
fully dressed,  with  a  few  thin  white 
hairs  straggling  from  under  his  hat.  He 
watched  her  nervous  strides  and  pas- 
sionate, long-drawn  breaths  gravely,  but 
without  a  word.     Finally  she  stopped. 

"James  !" 

"  Yes,  Hannah." 

"  The  woman  has  not  come.  She'll 
not  come.  It  is  in  keeping  with  all  of 
her  life.  A  pink-faced,  frivolous  trifler : 
she  lured  Tom  from  me ;  she  hung  about 
his  neck  like  a  millstone  ;  she  hid  the 
birth  of  his  boy  from  me  ;  and  now — " 
She  stopped,  her  nostrils  distended  and 
white.  It  was  her  only  sign  of  passion. 
The  little  gate  on  which  her  hand  rested 
shook  violently. 

He  put  his  own  on  it.  "  Hannah  ?" 
he  said,  "  Hannah  ?"  gently. 

Her  whole  burly  frame  seemed  to 
cower,  ashamed.  "  I  forget  myself, 
James.      Let  me  go  in  a  while  alone." 

"  Tell  me  first  what  is  your  disap- 
pointment .''  Why  do  you  bring  the 
woman  here  ?  Tom  is  dead,  and  his 
boy —  We  had  better  bury  them  out 
of  sight,  Hannah."  The  quiet  gentle- 
man passed  his  hand  over  his  pale  face 
as  he  spoke  ;  it  was  a  common  gesture 
with  him,  and,  like  all  his  motions,  had 


in  it  something  mild  and  reticent ;  but 
his  wife  was  struck  by  it  as  never  before. 
She  looked  at  him  keenly.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  her  husband  had  held  their 
dead  son  closer  to  him  than  she.  in  all 
her  loud  agony  of  grief?  But  James 
Galbraith's  secret  thoughts  were  not  to 
be  uncovered,  even  by  his  wife. 

"  I  want  her  near  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  touch  her  face  because  he  kissed 
it  at  the  last :  to  hear  her  voice,  because 
it  was  dear  to  him.  I  am  a  fool,  per- 
haps, and  a  dotard.  But  the  nearer  I 
come  to  the  grave,  the  more  I  hunger 
for  something  of  my  own.  I'm  an  old, 
branchless  trunk.  I  had  but  my  boy. 
There's  not  a  dog  now  that  wouldn't  be 
nearer  to  me  than  all  the  world  of  men 
and  women  if  he  had  loved  it." 

He  held  his  quiet  eyes  on  her,  calm- 
ing her.     "  I  understand,"  he  said. 

They  entered  the  gate  and  passed  into 
a  wide  hall.  A  great  coal-fire  threw  alter- 
nate yellow  light  and  shadows  through 
it.  She  stopped  him  by  the  arm  in  front 
of  it.  "James,"  in  a  low,  hurried  whis- 
per, "don't  laugh  at  me.  I  told  you 
long  ago  I  did  not  believe  that  Tom's 
boy  was  dead.  I  lie  awake  at  nights 
thinking.  What  if  God  would  give  him 
to  me,  a  pure  child  as  he  is,  to  atone 
for  the  mistake  I  made  with  his  father  ? 
I  never  believed  he  was  dead.  If  the 
woman  comes,  I  will  force  the  truth  from 
her!" 

"  Yes,  Hannah,"  mildly. 

Madam  Galbraith  went  to  her  own 
room  and  locked  herself  in.  It  was  her 
habit  when  deeply  disturbed. 

But  her  husband  sat  quietly  before 
the  fire,  his  delicate  fingers  pointed  to- 
gether, looking  into  the  sudden  flames 
and  shadows.  He  had  no  need  to  turn 
a  lock  upon  his  grief. 

If  the  simple-hearted  gentleman  kept 
the  boy  he  had  lost  near  to  him  in  his 
every  daily  walk  and  thought,  no  man 
knew  it.  His  odd,  fastidious,  kindly 
ways  and  quizzical  humor  apparently 
filled  up  his  little  role  in  life.  Even  his 
wife  would  have  said  there  was  in  it 
nothing  more  than  these. 


^'yyjtag^p^"'^^^;;jfiMaftwjMHsi^gB 

HMflaBj 

ll|IIIJIIUHM 

^^^Ki 

m 

PART     III 


CHAPTER    VII. 

«"r\ONG-DONG!"  The  slaked  house- 
J-V  fires  thrust  out  angry  jets  of  flame 
to  explore  the  darkness ;  cattle  stamped 
in  the  stables ;  cocks  crowed  back  their 
indignation  through  the  unbroken  night 
at  being  wakened  too  early.  "Dong- 
dong!"  Floors  began  to  creak  under 
unwilling  footsteps  ;  dull  candles  to  sput- 
ter and  wink;  sleepy  maids  to  creep 
stumbhng  down  from  their  garret  roosts  ; 
the  Ratthn  brood  chirped  under  their 
quilts  ;  the  little  preacher  turned  uneasily 
on  his  pillow ;  but  still  the  sullen  clamor 
went  on.  It  was  only  the  great  house- 
bell  of  the  Stone-post  Farm  which  usu- 
ally stood  on  the  hall  table.  It  was  a 
weight  for  a  man,  and  had  a  clank  like  a 
blacksmith's  anvil ;  but  a  young  woman, 
who  thrust  her  colorless  face  out  into 
one  of  the  dark  upper  entries  to  listen, 
fancied  it  had  a  human  voice.  "To 
work!  to  work!"  it  said.  "Give  thanks. 
Begin  anew.  Amend  your  mistakes. 
Your  hfe  is  in  your  own  hands."  The 
woman  closed  her  door  behind  her,  and 
came  out  into  the  darkness  fully  dressed. 
Perhaps  that  was  what  it  said.  Mad- 
am Galbraith  rang  the  bell  herself,  strid- 
ing up  and  down  the  chilly,  pitch-black 
hall,  clearing  her  throat  like  a  man.     At 


every  anniversary  she  refreshed  her  soul 
by  penitence  and  a  new  code  of  good 
resolutions,  and  dragged  the  household 
out  of  bed  a  half  hour  earlier  the  next 
morning. 

Her  night  had  been  sleepless :  that 
thought  of  her  dead  scape-grace  son 
dwindled  her  life  down  before  her  into  a 
paltry  failure.  Well,  there  was  a  frag- 
ment left:  in  that  there  should  be  no 
mistakes.  If  she  had  been  a  man,  she 
would  have  worked  off  the  rank,  nervous 
vitality  of  her  brawny  body  and  brain  in 
some  struggle  for  freedom — Cretan  or 
Fenian :  as  it  was,  she  haled  the  petty 
world  under  her  from  b'eneath  the  blank- 
ets to  face  their  work  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  Nobody  paid  such  wages  in 
all  the  country-side ;  but  when  in  these 
moods  the  woman  was  a  terrible  slave- 
driver:  the  stolid  Dutch  hands  who 
worked  for  her  might  as  well  stem  her 
will  as  a  log  run  counter  to  the  sea  un- 
der-tow.  She  called  herself  a  catholic, 
liberal  thinker ;  but  her  real  creed  in  her 
own  world  was,  God  is  God ;  and  Han- 
nah Galbraith  is  his  Prophet. 

Still,  it  hurt  her  that  the  crowd  of 
house  and  farm  hands  were  sullen  as 
they  gathered  into  one  of  the  outer 
kitchens  and  waited  for  her.  Why  could 
they  not  see  what  was  best  for  them  ? 

47 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Was  not  work  and  thanksgiving  better 
than  sloth  ?  She  went  up  the  stairs  and 
struck  with  her  stick  two  or  three  times 
on  a  door. 

"Honora!"  she  cried.  "Don't  de- 
lay, Honora!"  She  was  sure  of  the 
httle  girl's  good  temper  if  she  drove  her 
all  night.  Then  she  went  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  took  her  position  behind  a 
table,  the  oil  lamp  lighting  up  her  hawk- 
eyes  and  the  shaggy  white  hair  above 
them.  She  had  her  farm-book  and  bag 
of  specie  before  her,  and  began  counting 
out  their  wages. 

"  I  pay  you  now  because  a  man  can 
give  thanks  better  with  a  full  stomach 
and  pocket.  I  want  but  a  quarter  day's 
work  done.  I'll  see  that  all  of  you  have 
something  extra  to  thank  God  for.  Ex- 
cept you,  John  Hawley  and  James  Lane. 
You'll  spend  the  day  in  bringing  up  your 
husking.  You  were  drunk  yesterday. 
The  Lord  wants  no  prayers  or  hymns 
from  a  man  who  shirks  his  daily  work." 

She  marshaled  them  as  a  general  his 
men ;  some  to  the  pantry,  the  field,  the 
mill,  the  kitchen :  omitting  no  minutife  ; 
her  voice  grew  loud  and  unctuous.  The 
petty  authority  gave  her,  evidently,  a 
great  pleasure.  God  had  put  power  in 
her  hands,  she  thought :  there  were  hun- 
dreds to  whom  her  will  gave  comfort  or 
poverty :  she  did  her  duty  well.  Sud- 
denly she  hesitated,  glanced  uneasily 
about  her;  the  glance  always  passing 
with  marked  indifference  over  a  quiet 
woman  in  clothes  of  a  dull  chocolate 
color,  who  stood  in  the  shadow.  There 
was  nothing  peculiar  in  her  appearance 
beyond  the  unusual  want  of  color  in  the 
solid  features,  but  Madam  Galbraith 
ffl^ltered  before  the  steady  eyes,  as 
though  she  and  her  power  had  been  but 
a  sham — a  house  of  sand  built  on  sand. 
She  shut  her  book  and  got  up. 

"I  did  not  look  to  find  you  here," 
with  a  manner  of  forced  politeness.  "  My 
people  are  used  to  the  hardships  of  early 
rising." 

"It  is  no  hardship  to  me,"  said  the 
woman,  quietly. 

"Open  the  shutters,  women,"  in  a 
loud  voice,  turning  away,  "and  go  to 
work ;  go  to  work !" 


But  they  hesitated — a  sudden  bright- 
ening on  their  faces  :  it  might  have  been 
from  the  clear  dawn  that  filled  the  room 
through  the  open  windows,  or  from  Hono- 
ra, coming  in  with  and  seeming  a  part  of 
it.  She  said  good-morning  as  she  passed 
among  them :  there  were  none  of  them 
whom  her  childish  smile  and  nod  did  not 
reach.  They  were  all  fond  of  Honora. 
People  always  thought  the  little  girl's 
voice  was  different  from  any  they  had 
heard  before,  and,  when  they  had  been 
with  her  a  little  while,  felt  as  if  they  had  a 
share  in  her,  and  were  in  some  sort  related 
to  her.  Madam  Galbraith  nodded  to  her 
to  follow,  and,  when  they  were  out  in  the 
hall,  led  her  by  the  hand.  Honora  never 
would  be  other  to  her  than  the  little 
two-year-old  whom  she  had  taken  from 
her  dead  mother's  side.  They  went  to 
her  own  especial  room,  where  a  fire  was 
burning :  piles  of  clothes  of  all  sizes 
and  materials  lay  around.  Madam  Gal- 
braith loaded  herself  and  Honora,  chuck- 
ling and  talking  over  them  like  a  great 
boy  on  a  frolic :  then  she  covered  all 
over  with  shawls,  and  out  they  went  into 
the  hall  again,  walking  stealthily.  She 
had  no  mind  that  even  her  husband 
should  know  that  the  poor  Rattlins 
owed  their  clothes  to  her.  Only  Hon- 
ora:  secrets  like  that  suited  her. 

They  softly  laid  a  great  bundle  inside 
of  Mrs.  Rattlin's  door,  and  then  hurried 
up  a  dark  passage  toward  a  room  where 
Rosy  and  Gerty  and  some  of  the  little 
ones  were  chattering  by  candlelight  like 
a  nest  of  pigeons.  But  Madam  Gal- 
braith stopped  short  with  an  angry  scowl : 
there  was  a  swinging  lamp  over  the  door, 
and  beneath  it  stood  the  little  woman  in 
the  dull-colored  dress,  her  cool  eyes 
curiously  fixed  on  them.  Madam  Gal- 
braith thrust  all  her  parcels  on  Honora, 
feeling  into  her  very  marrow  like  an 
overgrown  school-girl  playing  at  Santa 
Glaus  with  his  pack ;  but  she  lingered, 
trimming  the  lamp,  to  hear  the  outburst 
of  girlish  cries  and  rejoicing  inside.  She 
could  see,  though  the  door  was  shut, 
how  Honora  was  already  on  her  knees, 
hard  at  work  in  the  midst  of  the  floor, 
helping  to  dress  the  little  ones  in  their 
bright  little  dresses,  kissing  the  chubby 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


49 


white  arms  and  feet,  and  how  the  Rat- 
tlin  girls,  as  usual,  shied  off",  half  afraid 
of  her,  because  she  was  delicately  dressed, 
and  knew  no  more  of  their  talk  or  of 
beaux  than  a  baby.  She  wanted  to  play 
out  her  own  part  of  Santa  Claus.  She 
■would  have  relished  every  bit  of  Honora's 
fun,  to  the  tying  of  the  last  baby's  shoe. 
While  she  stood  gravely  screwing  on  the 
lamp  chimney,  the  comely,  quiet  little 
woman  beside  her,  in  her  stuff  dress, 
became  an  intolerable  weight  and  irrita- 
tion. Only  the  day  before  she  had 
spoken  to  her  husband  of  it : 

"  I  am  under  the  surveillance  of  my 
housekeeper  as  thoroughly  as  though  we 
both  were  Jesuits,  and  she  had  all  the 
secret  power  of  her  Order  to  back  her," 
she  said,  with  a  nervous  laugh.  "She 
looks  as  though  she  had  some  mean 
nastiness  of  my  Hfe  in  reserve  in  her 
hands,  ready  to  lash  me  with  it  some 
day.  Laugh  as  you  like,"  annoyed,  "but 
I  have  something  more  to  tell  you.  The 
other  day  she  heard  Honora  named  as 
my  heir,  and  since  then  she  has  regarded 
the  child  with  a  positive  malevolence. 
Credit  me,  James,  that  woman  has 
power  to  injure  us.  My  instincts  never 
deceived  me  yet." 

"  She  seems  to  me  an  altogether 
harmless  and  commonplace  person,  Han- 
nah." But  his  quiet  eyes  followed  the 
housekeeper  whenever  she  came  in  that 
day.  He  was  jealous  of  anything  that 
concerned  his  niece,  Honora.. 

Madam  Galbraith,  having  hung  the 
lamp  carefully,  turned  its  full  light  on  the 
staid  figure  before  it,  inspecting  her  with 
her  air  of  cool  domination.  She  had  a 
habit  of  meeting  with  absolute  silence 
enemies  with  whom  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  wrestle  :  it  insured  their  defeat. 
Even  women  whom  she  caressed  were 
dwarfed  by  her  coarse  strength,  recog- 
nized themselves  as  pretty,  dollish,  in- 
capable, liked  to  get  away  from  under 
her  eyes.  But  the  little  housekeeper 
met  her  with  her  usual  undisturbed, 
practical  air. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?"  knocking  her 
ash-stick  on  the  floor.  "  Why  do  you 
follow  me  about  ?" 

"Only  for   orders,  madam,"   prompt- 


ly.    "  Do  you  expect  other  guests  to 

day  ?" 

"  I  expect  my — my  late  son's  wife." 

"  I  know  that.  I  have  kept  a  fire  in 
the  west  chamber  for  her  for  two  days." 

Madam  Galbraith  waited  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  would  have  passed  her, 
nodding  slightly,  but  the  woman  put  out 
her  steady  hand,  detaining  her.  There 
was  a  moment's  pause  before  she  spoke  ; 

"  1  heard — a  rumor  perhaps — that  her 
son  was  alive  and  coming  with  her. 
Your  grandson.  Shall  I  prepare  for 
him  ?" 

She  looked  up  and  quailed  momenta- 
rily before  the  stern  regard  fixed  on  her. 

"  It  may  have  been  gossip.  It  came 
from  some  words  you  dropped,  madam. 
You  believed  him  to  be  alive." 

"  There  is  doubtless  much  gossip  and 
cackling  among  my  people  over  words 
which  I  let  fall,"  calmly.  "  But  few  of 
them  would  venture  to  carry  them  back 
to  me  again.     Why  do  you  do  it  ?" 

The  woman's  face  was  bent  thoughtfully 
on  the  floor,  but  there  was  no  reply. 

"  What  is  your  motive  ?  You  have  a 
motive." 

"  Yes.      I  have  one,"  boldly. 

"  Come,  that's  better !  Be  candid, 
child.  What  do  you  want  from  me  ?" 
good-humored  with  the  first  hint  of  a 
chance  to  give. 

"  I  ?     Nothing." 

"  Do  you  play  the  spy  fi-om  sheer  love 
of  the  part,  then  V^  with  a  sneer. 

"  I — a  spy  !"  the  pale,  thick  nostrils 
dilating  suddenly.  "And  yet,"  slowly, 
and  considering,  "  I  deserve  it,  perhaps. 
But  I  am  a  poor  dissembler.  Better  I 
had  faced  you  at  the  first  and  told  you 
my  errand.     1  did  my  work  badly." 

"  You  did  it  badly,"  with  her  seldom- 
used  manner  of  a  great  lady  towards  her 
serf  "  Never  burrow  or  mole  with  me, 
woman.  I  cannot  be  hurt  by  it.  I've 
crushed  many  a  snake  in  the  road  yonder 
under  my  sole,"  glancing  down  at  the 
large,  coarsely-shod  foot. 

"  I  never  meant  to  hurt  you,"  ab- 
sently. 

"  You  meddled  from  curiosity,  then  ? 
Like  your  sex."  Madam  Galbraith  had 
risen  into  her  favorite  strident,  lecturing 


5° 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


voice,  and  rolled  the  words  like  sweet 
morsels  under  her  tongue.  "  I  boasted 
of  you  as  the  first  woman  I  knew  who 
did  your  work  for  your  work's  sake. 
Like  a  man.  'When  women  learn  to 
work  like  men,  they'll  be  paid  like  men,' 
I  said.  And  I  paid  you,  while  you 
were  thrusting  your  hands  from  sheer 
idleness  into  the  lives  of  other  people. 
From  a  silly  hankering  after  romance." 

The  solid,  brown  little  figure  had  re- 
mained immovable  during  this  harangue  ; 
but  at  the  last  words  she  looked  up, 
anxiety  and  pain,  that  would  not  be  con- 
trolled, breaking  through  her  apathetic 
face.  Madam  Galbraith  fancied  that 
they  had  been  so  controlled  beneath  it 
for  years.  But  her  voice  was,  as  usual, 
quiet  and  moderate.  "  Did  I  thrust  my 
hands  into  anybody's  life  ?"  looking  at 
them  as  she  raised  them.  "  I  think 
sometimes  there  is  a  stain  on  them 
heavier  than  murder.  But  it  was  not 
my  fault.  Could  I  have  kept  them  out  ? 
One  cannot  live  alone.  People  are  so 
tangled  and  knitted  together — together," 
touching  her  breast  lightly.  "You  are 
at  ease,  thinking  only  of  yourself,  and 
you  waken  some  morning  to  find  a  great 
wrong  piled  up  against  your  soul  in 
which  you  had  no  part.  But  then  you 
give  up  your  whole  life  to  undo  it.  That 
is  no  romance.  It  is  a  common,  practi- 
cal matter." 

Madam  Galbraith  scanned  her  keenly 
a  moment.  "American  women  delight 
in  giving  up  their  lives,"  she  began  to 
dogmatize,  "  for  one  whimsey  or  another. 
They  throw  themselves,  with  half-grown 
bodies  and  brains,  at  the  feet  of  the  first 
fellow  who  makes  them  a  pretty  speech, 
and  make  a  god  of  him  ;  and  then  they 
nurse  and  drudge  with  their  children 
until  at  middle  age  they  are  but  hysteric, 
sickly  pests  of  society.  And  single, 
middle-aged  women,  like  you,  undertake 
a  reform,  to  amend  some  wrong,  as  I 
judge  you  mean  to  do  by  your  incohe- 
rent talk.  That  is  the  maddest  of  all," 
raising  her  voice  when  the  other  would 
have  spoken.  "  Let  criminals  alone. 
When  the  taint's  in  the  blood,  it  will 
break  out.  I  never  knew  a  vicious  man 
cured.      I  know — I  know —  The  Lord's 


grace.  Well,  that  will  ensure  them  safe 
passage  over  the  river  yonder.  But  He 
never  really  cleans  them  till  they  come  to 
the  other  side.  That's  my  experience. 
What  do  you  see  in  my  face  V  stopping 
short  before  the  searching  eyes  bent  on 
her. 

The  woman  turned  away  with  a  long 
breath.  "  No  matter.  I  have  under- 
taken no  reform."  She  continued,  after 
a  slight  pause,  "  It  matters  much  to  me 
that  you  should  not  think  my  work  ro- 
mantic or  foolish.  It  is  practical — a 
mere  act  of  justice.  But  I  have  given 
up  something  for  it.  I  am  a  middle-aged 
woman  now,  as  you  said." 

"  What  had  I  to  do  with  it  ?  Why 
did  you  spy  upon  me  ?" 

"  You  had  much  to  do  with  it,"  with 
energy,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes, 
without  blenching.  "  I  traced  you  out 
and  came  here  to  find  what  manner  of 
woman  you  were — genuine  and  sound  at 
the  core,  or  a  monstrous  sham,  a  thing 
of  straw.  I  came  to  see  what  your  noted 
generosity  was  worth.  I  find  it  a  ready 
charity  when  the  stomachs  of  men  are 
ailing,  but — " 

"  Go  on,"  quietly.  "  What  do  I 
lack  ?" 

"  There  are  worse  pangs  than  those 
of  hunger.  To-day  will  test  you.  But 
I  believe  this  of  you,  Madam  Galbraith: 
that,  in  a  case  more  pitiful  than  that 
which  Christ  wept  over,  you  will  be  as 
merciless  and  cruel  as  the  grave,  igno- 
rant and  faulty  as  you  are.  I  am  rude. 
But  I  have  worked  for  so  many  years 
to  this  end,  and  my  disappointment  is 
bitter." 

"  To-day  will  test  me,  eh  ?  Then  we 
will  wait  until  to-day  is  over  to  pass  judg- 
ment," gravely.  "  I  think  you  wrong  me, 
good  woman ;"  and,  turning  from  her  with- 
out farther  question,  she  went  with  her 
heavy  steps  down  the  hall. 

The  other  looked  after  her  earnestly. 
"  There  is  something  greater  in  the  wo- 
man than  I  thought,"  she  said,  seeing 
how  calm  her  temper  was. 

Then  she  went  into  her  own  house- 
keeper's room,  full  of  her  prim,  comfort- 
able belongings.  It  was  not  likely  that 
she  would  be  suffered  to  occup}  it  after 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


51 


what  had  passed,  and  it  was,  after  all,  her 
only  home.  For  two  years  she  had  been 
here,  first  coming  as  seamstress,  then 
growing  into  a  necessity  in  the  house- 
hold as  Madam  Galbraith's  almoner, 
Honora's  teacher  in  embroidery,  and  the 
like.  Working  constantly  towards  some 
end  which  to-day  would  foil.  One  would 
have  looked  for  some  womanish  tears 
of  disappointment,  now  that  she  was 
alone  ;  but  she  only  sat  down,  with  her 
hands  folded  over  her  black  silk  apron, 
and  looked  steadily  in  the  fire,  presently 
pouring  herself  out  a  cup  of  tea  from  a 
kettle  on  the  hob,  and  sipping  it  slowly. 
Then  she  went  to  the  mirror  and  care- 
fully brushed  her  shining  black  hair, 
winding  it  in  smooth  folds  about  her 
round  head ;  pinning  on  a  clean 
collar ;  knotting  the  bow  at  the  throat 
above  the  chocolate  dress.  Not  a 
twinkle  of  vanity  in  the  steady  eyes  ; 
yet  these  little  pinnings  and  brushings 
and  tea-drinkings  had  given  her  constant 
comfort  during  the  years  just  gone — 
years  whose  strain  of  anxiety  and  loss 
had  not  worn  a  wrinkle  in  the  smooth, 
pleasant  face,  but  only  blanched  it  slowly, 
slowly,  leaving  it  every  day  more  chalky 
and  bloodless. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

•■  Now,  no  wood-fire  can  equal  this, 
in  my  notion.  All  it  needs  is  its  poet," 
said  Mr.  Rattlin. 

Paul  Dour  looked  down  compassion- 
ateh'  both  at  the  fire  and  the  little  man, 
who,  in  his  shining  black  suit,  new  from 
crown  to  toe,  looked  more  than  ever  like 
a  cricket.  They  were  on  the  rug  before 
the  great  parlor-fire,  waiting  for  break- 
fast. The  fire  lacked  the  poetic  element 
belonging  to  the  wood,  Paul  thought,  but 
it  at  least  was  warm.  The  jetty,  glossy 
masses  of  coal  were  built  up  on  a  glow- 
ing crimson  bed,  and  out  of  their  hearts 
burst  scarlet,  yellow,  violet  heats,  little 
Ariel  flashes  of  emerald  and  blue,  light- 
ening and  vanishing  before  one  could 
wish  them  to  stay  ;  sturdier  flames  of  a 
lusty  saffron  hue  climbing  tipsily  up  to 


the  great  background  which  walled  in 
the  mass  of  color — a  mysterious  cavern 
heavily  hung  with  black,  plumy  wreaths 
of  long-ago  dead  smoke.  Caliban-like 
faces  were  looking  at  him  out  of  the 
depths  of  white  heat,  and  fairy  leaves 
and  grottoes  rose  in  endless  fretting  of 
gray  moss  over  the  fieriest  spaces. 

"  There's  the  poetry  and  welcome  of 
a  hundred  forests  gone  down  into  that 
fire,"  persisted  Mr.  RattHn,  blushing  at 
his  bit  of  fancy.  "  What's  your  green 
log,  sputtering  lonely  and  black,  and 
sending  up  sometimes  a  shower  of  hasty 
sparks,  to  that  V 

Dour  smiled  superciliously.  The  fire 
—  the  whole  manage  —  was  Western: 
comfortable  and  wasteful.  He  weighed 
the  country  and  its  people  in  his  palm, 
as  it  were,  as  though  he  had  been  here 
for  a  month.  He  could  give  the  essence 
of  the  whole  in  a  two-page  magazine 
article  :  he  would  like  to  sketch  in  his 
coarse-grained  hostess  by  one  or  two 
Hogarthian  lines  ;  for  the  usually  good- 
tempered  youth  was  nettled.  Madam  Gal- 
braith  had  given  him  a  tremendous  grip  of 
her  broad,  warm  hand,  in  sign  of  welcome, 
the  evening  before,  and  was  altogether 
cordial  and  gracious.  But  when  he  spoke 
of  his  name,  she  stood  on  guard. 

"  Dour  ?  No,  lad,  you're  none  of 
our  kin.  The  letters  spell  the  name, 
maybe,  but  not  a  bone  in  your  body 
or  blink  of  your  eyes,"  tapping  his 
narrow  chest,  and  her  probing  eyes  scan- 
ning him  as  though  he  had  been  a  head 
of  cattle  that  she  meant  to  buy.  "  Eat, 
boy.  Eat  heartily  for  a  fortnight,  and  I 
can  tell  better  what  you're  worth.  That 
slop-diet  down  East  takes  the  healthy 
stamina  out  of  men's  brains.  Your  creeds 
and  theories  are  as  airy  and  bloodless  as 
ghosts,  for  every-day  use,  till  they  have 
Western  strength  put  into  them." 

"If  the  old  Western  women  were  such 
coarse  beasts,  what  were  the  young  ones  ?" 

Pleasanter  to  look  at,  certainly :  there 
was  quite  a  crowd  of  them  between  him 
and  the  window  which  framed  the  frost- 
touched  autumnal  landscape  without. 
Mrs.  Rattlin  smiled,  delighted,  over  to 
him  from  where  she  sat,  regarding  with 
wonder   her   own   crossed,    idle    hands : 


52 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


there  were  half-a-dozen  thinly-built  mat- 
rons, in  dyed  second-best  silks  and  fly- 
away caps  on  their  black  "  fronts,"  who 
never  had  heard  of  transcendental  phi- 
losophy, and  knew  New  England  only  as  a 
great  factory  of  teachers  and  clocks,  yet 
whose  faces  wore  that  late,  wise,  patient 
beauty  which  comes  to  the  ugliest  good 
woman  in  middle  age.  There  were  Rosy 
and  Gerty,  brimming  over  with  smiles  and 
blushes  and  dimples,  in  a  group  of  girls. 
The  poor  little  souls  had  said  their  thank- 
ful prayers  that  morning  with  energy. 
The  soft,  warm-colored  merino  dresses 
fitted  so  perfectly,  and  were  just  short 
enough  to  show  the  dainty  boots  be- 
neath ;  and  the  dear  children  were  so 
snug  and  well  fed ;  and  there  was  the 
charming  young  man  of  the  coach  to 
meet ;  and  after  whispering  half  the 
night  about  him,  they  were  sure  he  was 
not  engaged.  O  love  !  love  !  And  to 
be  married,  and  to  have  a  house  of  one's 
own  ! 

Dour,  however,  looked  loftily  down  on 
them  as  on  playful  kittens.  His  wife 
must  be  an  intellectual  helpmeet.  All 
the  girls  were  gathered  about  one  who 
attracted  him  curiously.  She  wore  a 
delicate,  lavender-colored  dress,  which 
might,  he  thought,  have  been  born  into 
the  world  ready  made,  to  suit  a  fresh, 
innocent  young  girl  in  the  morning. 
This  one  looked  singularly  fresh  and 
unhackneyed,  even  beside  those  rose- 
buds. Rosy  and  Gertrude.  But  she 
was  painfully  ill  at  ease,  had  lost  her 
color,  glanced  about  in  an  evident  ap- 
palled perplexity  to  know  what  next  to 
say  to  them.  With  them,  conversation 
was  brisk  enough  :  it  turned  incessantly 
upon  '>he,"  "he" — went,  came  and 
ended  there.  The  "he"  meant  half 
the  young  clerks  and  farmers  in  the 
county.  The  talk  sounded  very  sweet 
and  maidenly  to  the  men  in  the  room, 
Paul  included,  and  pleasant  as  the  chirp- 
ing of  young  birds  in  spring. 

Madam  Galbraith  nodded  good-hu- 
moredly  as  she  came  in  and  heard  them. 
"  Come  to  me,  Honora.  Chatter  away, 
girls.  Only  don't  let  the  hare  chase  the 
hounds.  Come  to  me  at  once,  Honora," 
sweeping  on  towards  the  open  breakfast- 


room.  But  the  young  lady  slid  away 
from  both  her  and  tlie  girls,  Paul  saw, 
and  in  the  confusion  of  placing  the  guests 
contrived  to  ensconce  herself  snugly 
by  her  uncle  ;  and  they  two  made  a 
long,  comfortable  meal,  and  were  merry 
and  sharp-witted  together  at  their  leisure. 
The  little  girl  had  no  style  at  all,  but 
Dour  determined  to  test  what  sort  of 
metal  was  in  her  for  an  intellectual  help- 
meet, hearing  that  she  was  Miss  Dundas, 
the  declared  heir  of  the  Galbraiths. 

Eat  ?  How  they  ate  !  Smoking  veni- 
son, juicy  beef,  game,  corn  and  wheat 
biscuit  in  yellow  and  snowy  flakes,  coffee, 
whose  verj'  vapor  was  invigorating,  rising 
in  a  thin  smoke  from  the  old-fashioned, 
ball-like  cups.  But  the  damask  was 
whfte  and  satiny,  the  silver  heavy  and 
glistening,  the  air  fresh,  the  circling 
faces  happy.  Dour  found  the  new- 
atmosphere,  after  all,  fill  his  lungs  satis- 
factorily, and  ate  until  every  one  else 
had  finished.  Madam  Galbraith,  too, 
formed  a  fitting  head  to  the  great  table. 
If  her  guests  had  been  marshaled  by  the 
thousands,  the  genial  hospitahty  in  her 
face  would  have  met  all  their  needs. 
Now,  as  hostess,  she  was  her  real  self:  her 
acrimony,  her  anger  against  her  house- 
keeper, her  fierce,  nervous  watch  for  Tom's 
wife,  were  gone,  and  one  could  compare 
her  to  nothing  but  a  generous,  great  fire, 
to  which  all  her  world  was  free  to  come 
and  be  warmed.  Her  dress  transformed 
her,  too  :  the  glistening  white  hair  was 
rolled  into  a  sort  of  natural  crown,  and 
the  royal  purple  color  which  she  wore 
draped  her  broad,  athletic  frame  as  aptly 
as  long  ago  the  brawny  limbs  of  bluff 
King  Hal. 

After  breakfast  was  over,  Paul  dexter- 
ously made  his  way  through  the  talking 
groups  to  the  window  where  Honora 
stood  by  her  uncle,  cutting  the  leaves  of 
a  new  book  for  him.  Mrs.  Rattlin  had 
confided  to  him  that  the  young  lady  had 
been  given  the  education  of  a  man. 
"  Latin  and  Greek,  sir — Greek  !"  Be- 
sides, it  was  a  pleasant  picture  in  the 
morning  sunshine — the  slender,  bendmg 
figure,  in  its  clear  lavender  drapery,  and 
the  gray-headed  old  man  leaning  back 
in  his  arm-chair,  watching  her  through 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


53 


his  half-shut,  kindly  blue  eyes.  Miss 
Dundas,  too,  had  an  unusual  air  that 
attracted  him,  as  though  she  were  some- 
t'hing  that  had  been  kept  clean  and  set 
apart — the  bell  of  a  wild  columbine  with 
the  dew  yet  upon  it.  But  a  stupid  wo- 
man was  a  flower  without  fragrance. 
She  stiffened  awkwardly  erect,  and 
blushed  unbecomingly  as  he  came  up. 
Her  lucid  eyes  grew  vacant. 

"The  very  sunHght  gives  thanks  to- 
day, Miss  Dundas." 

"  The  sunshine  ?  It  is  good  for  the 
late  wheat." 

Paul  picked  up  her  book. 

"A  Review?  What  a  comfortable 
age  it  is  that  we  live  in,  when  all  philoso- 
phy and  science  comes  served  to  us  in 
such  dainty /Az/j.-"' 

"The  book  was  for  her  uncle.  It  was 
too  heavy  reading  for  her." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course.  Her  shelves 
now,"  patiently,  "were  no  doubt  filled 
with  poetry  ?  It  was  the  highest  utter- 
ance of  truth,  after  all,  and  most  native 
to  a  woman." 

"  No.  She  read  no  poetry.  There 
were  a  few  old  verses  she  learned  long 
ago,  all  that  she  cared  for — " 

"  In  modern  poetry,  yes.  He  under- 
stood that.  Because  her  mind  had  been 
attuned  to  the  grand  Greek  measures — 
Sophocles,  Y^ischylus — " 

"Greek  prose  or  poetry  had  been  but 
so  many  wearisome  verbs  and  nouns  to 
her,"  with  a  contraction  of  her  forehead 
as  if  the  very  memory  of  them  ached 
there.     "  She  cared  for  no  books." 

"What !  Honora  here  ?"  cried  Madam 
Galbraith,  coming  between  Paul  and  her 
niece.  "  My  little  girl  will  entertain  you 
poorly,  Mr.  Dour,"  tapping  on  the  girl's 
head  critically,  as  though  she  were  a 
puppet  which  she  was  rather  proud  of 
having  made.  "  She  has  had  no  com- 
paniois  but  her  uncle  and  myself,  and 
nevei  has  learned  to  make  talk.  Go, 
Honora,  bring  me  a  nosegay — chrysanthe- 
mums, anything.  The  ground's  tabooed, 
young  sir.  I'm  always  frank  with  young 
men,"  with  a  shrewd  smile  after  Honora 
as  she  went  out.  "  I've  had  the  whim 
of  rearing  one  woman  who  will  go  to 
her  husband,  when   I  find  him,  ignorant 


of  flirtation  or  Platonic  friendship.  The 
French  know  how  to  bring  up  girls. 
Young  people  strike  out  nothing  but  ill 
by  friction  together." 

Paul  colored  and  laughed.  "It  is  a 
fair  warning,"  he  said.  But  the  forbid- 
den apples  became  suddenly  very  tempt- 
ing to  him. 

"  But  is  my  little  Nora  altogether  an 
idiot  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Galbraith  when 
she  came  back,  and,  throwing  down  the 
flowers,  took  up  the  paper-knife  again. 
"  No  books  at  all  V 

"  None,  unless  when  I  can  do  no 
better,"  with  a  decisive  little  nod,  speak- 
ing quick  and  quietly,  now  that  she  was 
alone  with  him,  and  with  a  clear,  fine  in- 
tonation. "  They're  so  dead — to  me. 
But  then  /  can  do  no  better.  Yet  it  is 
something  to  read  travels :  you  put  a 
window  in  the  house  and  Egypt  or  the 
Alps  outside.  But  I  think  books  are 
but  a  poor  sort  of  life." 

"  What  is  better,  Nora  ?  You  love 
nature,  eh  ?  your  flowers,  the  old  river 
here  .''" 

"  Not  much.  I  hke  to  see  the  crops 
come  up  well.  But  the  sunsets  you 
watch,  uncle,  and  the  storms  and  moon- 
light— now,  they're  all  very  much  alike 
to  me." 

"  What  do  you  care  for,  then,  child  ?" 
leaning  forward  and  watching  her  at- 
tentively. 

"  People,"  laying  down  her  book  and 
knife  and  looking  at  him  gravely. 
"  They're  the  only  things  worth  anything 
in  the  world  to  me.  I'd  rather,"  a  curi- 
ous intentness  coming  into  her  brown 
eyes,  "hear  Rosy  and  Gerty  tell  of 
their  lovers,  or  their  father  talk  of  his 
chance  of  a  better  salary,  than  read  any 
poem  that  ever  was  written." 

"How  is  that,  Nora.-"' 

"  I  don't  know,"  slowly,  as  one  who 
was  totally  unused  to  put  her  secret 
thoughts  into  words.  "Books  tire  me 
as  much  to-day  as  when  you  used  to 
call  me  dumb  Nonny.  But  to  hear  peo- 
ple talk  brings  all  the  good  and  bad  in 
me  up,  uncle.  I  think,  sometimes,  I 
can  see  God  and  the  devil  through  them, 
and  Christ  walking  the  earth.  I  can 
see    in    that   way  how  all   of  us   need 


54 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Him.  I  think,  sometimes,  it  is  in  me  to 
give  some  great  help.  I  seem  to  come 
so  near  to  everybody,"  growing  slightly 
paler,  her  face  more  intent.  "But  no 
one  knows  I  am  near  to  them.  Nobody 
but  you,  uncle.  If  there's  any  words 
here,"  touching  her  breast  with  a  fine 
smile,  "they'll  never  be  spoken.  I'm 
afraid  I  will  be  a  very  dumb  woman. 
Stupid  Nonny  to  the  end." 

"I'm  afraid  you  will,  Honora.  Of 
aU  women  or  children  I  ever  knew,  you 
are  the  most  reticent.  Why,  in  all  your 
life,  dear,  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
spoken  in  this  way  to  me.  And  the 
words  now  come  almost  against  your  will." 

She  did  not  reply,  the  awkward  dumb 
spell  being  on  her  again,  apparently,  but 
brought  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside 
him,  as  usual.  They  were  such  constant 
and  gay  companions  that  people  saw  in 
Honora's  face,  when  talking  to  him,  a 
most  winning  and  potent  charm,  and 
found  her  motions  free  and  graceful — a 
noiseless  music.  But  apart  from  him 
the  poor  girl  stiffened  again. 

The  old  gentleman,  with  his  new  clue 
to  his  darhng's  heart,  found  a  fresh  zest 
in  her  old  habit  of  incessant  question- 
ings about  the  outdoor  world,  her  keen, 
silly  interest  in  even  the  children  about 
her,  her  awestruck  faith  in  the  learning 
of  Mr.  Dour  and  the  beauty  of  Rose 
and  Gerty. 

"  I  think  he  is  dpris  with  one  of  them," 
in  an  eager  whisper.  "They  have  so 
many  lovers !  And  their  manners  are 
so  finished,  uncle !      Pray  notice." 

"  Quite  finished,  my  dear.  They  never 
will  alter." 

"I  suppose  not,"  wistfully.  "But 
that  sort  of  thing  comes  by  nature. 
One  need  not  try  to  gain  it?"  anxiously. 

"No.  It's  too  late,  poor  Nora," 
laughing  quizzically.  "You've  moulded 
yourself  on  your  old  uncle  too  long.  It's 
a  hopeless  case.  Pet." 

There  was  a  sound  just  then  of  wheels 
crushing  over  the  pebbly  drive,  and 
within  a  hush  and  stir  and  significant 
glance  from  one  to  the  other  as  Bob 
Penly's  coach  bore  in  sight,  approaching 
the  hall-door. 

The    four,  horses    drew    up    with    a 


flourish,  and  Bob,  jumping  down,  opened 
the  door  and  rattled  down  the  steps  for 
a  small  woman,  in  a  gray  traveling  dress, 
to  descend. 

"Mary  Jennings."  But  the  words 
were  spoken  aloud  by  no  one. 

"Tom's  wife,"  to  Madam  Galbraith. 
The  woman  who  had  stolen  her  son 
from  her,  hidden  his  child,  and  forgotten 
them  both  in  the  arms  of  another  man. 
The  watching  crowd  about  her  hardened 
her  heart.  Seneca  should  have  said, 
"One  is  never  less  a  woman  than  when 
with  women."  Had  she  been  alone,  she 
might  have  put  her  arms  about  the 
stranger's  neck  and  given  her  a  kiss  in 
which  her  dead  son  had  part.  As  it 
was,  she  remained  standing,  surrounded, 
as  it  were,  by  her  court,  to  awe  and 
abash  the  poor  wretch. 

"Where  is  my  husband?"  she  asked. 
"He  should  be  here  to  receive  Mrs.  — 
Duffield.  And  Honora?"  She  had  a 
mind  that  Mary  Jennings  should  see  her 
accredited  heir  at  once,  and  realize  her 
own  lost  chances.  Honora  stooped  be- 
hind the  curtain,  and  opened  the  low 
window,  nodding  significantly. 

Mr.  Galbraith  got  up.  "Yes,  my  dear, 
yes.  I'll  go.  Let  the  women  settle  it. 
Thank  you.  You  are  always  considerate, 
Honora,"  his  voice  shaken  a  great  deal. 
When  he  was  outside,  he  went  slowly 
down  the  garden-path,  forgetting  to  put 
on  his  hat,  muttering,  under  his  breath, 
"Well!  well.  To  bring  their  quarrel 
over  his  grave  !"  He  went  out  into  the 
open  fields  on  one  of  his  long  tramps, 
and  did  not  return  until  near  nightfall. 

Honora,  behind  the  curtain,  looked 
after  him,  hesitating  how  to  follow  him 
unseen,  when  her  aunt  summoned  her : 

"  Miss  Dundas,  you  will  come  to  me." 
At  the  moment  the  door  opened  and 
Dallas  Galbraith's  mother  stood  in  the 
entrance.  She  cast  a  startled  glance  up 
the  wide  room,  which  seemed  to  be  lined 
with  strange  faces,  paused,  and  then  ad- 
vanced directly  to  the  farther  end,  where 
the  stately,  lion-faced  old  woman  waited 
for  her.  But  the  way  was  long,  and 
Madam  Galbraith's  inflexible  eyes,  on 
which  her  own  were  fixed,  took  the 
strength  from  her. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


55 


She  stopped,  made  a  step  or  two,  and 
faltered  again.  There  was  an  instant's 
pause — too  short  to  bring  in  Madam 
Galbraith  guilty  of  rudeness,  but  long 
enough  for  a  woman's  petty  cruelty — 
when  Honora  Dundas  went  quickly  for- 
ward to  her  in  the  face  of  them  all,  very 
pale,  but  composed, 

"  You  are  welcome  home,"  she  said, 
gently,  putting  her  arm  around  her.  '•  My 
eyes  are  quicker  than  yours,  Madam 
Galbraith,"  playfully,  but  looking  in  the 
old  lady's  eyes  steadily.  "It  is  your 
daughter  Mary." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  the  old  lady 
had  found  this  pure  little  lump  of  clay, 
which  she  was  moulding  into  a  proper 
woman,  turn  into  a  bit  of  iron  in  her 
hand.  Tableau  and  punishment  were 
brought  to  the  shabbiest  of  conclusions ; 
but  she  put  a  good  face  on  it,  strode  up 
with  her  hand  out,  blotting  the  little 
Dundas  girl  quite  out  of  the  matter,  talk- 
ing inwardly  to  herself  with  more  vehe- 
mence than  even  her  energetic  greeting 
expressed  : 

"  You  are  very  welcome."  (So ! 
so  !  Tom  had  some  excuse  !)  "  I  did 
not  send  for  you  unless  I  chose  you 
to  come"  (fresh  as  a  rose,  after  all 
that  she  has  lived  through  !) — «  unless 
I  wished  you  to  feel  at  home  here.  Take 
off  your  wrappings,  child,  and  veil." 
(There's  a  deal  of  outcome  in  that  face. 
Tom  never  had  the  upper-hand  here.) 
The  quick,  intelligent  glance  with  which 
Mrs.  Duffield  took  in  her  new  surround- 
ings piqued  her ;  also,  that  lady's  society- 
bred  lack  of  emotion.  "  Now  we  can 
see  your  face,  my  dear,"  with  a  courteous 
smile.  '•  We've  all  heard  it  was  well 
worth  the  seeing,  eh  ?  And  it  is  rather 
late  in  the  day  for  me  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  it — which  is  hardly  my  fault." 
(I  stung  her  there,  I  hope  !) 

Mrs.  Duffteld  untied  the  inside  rose- 
colored  strings  of  her  gray  bonnet,  and 
lifted  it  off  with  an  obliging  smile,  as 
one  would  uncover  a  picture.  "  My 
beauty  was  never  of  the  brilliant  type. 
'Winning,'  rather,  both  my  husbands 
thought.  But  it  is  altogether  gone,  as 
you  see,"  pausing,  as  if  for  inspection. 
« Only  my  mouth  and  chin  remain  un- 


impaired, I  believe.  May  I  go  to  my 
own  room  ?"  after  a  moment's  pleasant 
waiting.  "  I've  reached  that  age  when 
one  needs  a  little  repairing  before  meet- 
ing criticism,"  touching,  with  her  light, 
fluttering  fingers,  the  flossy  puffs  of  brown 
hair  that  framed  her  sweet,  oval  face. 
"  This  dear  young  lady  will  lead  me 
there,  I'm  sure,"  patting  Honora  on  the 
cheek.  "  And  a  cup  of  tea  and  morsel 
of  bread,  if  you  please  ?  I'm  quite  fam- 
ished in  your  mountain  air,"  with  a 
pretty  imploring  motion.  Then,  laying 
her  hand  on  Honora's  arm,  the  little 
lady  swept  out  of  the  room  as  naturally 
as  if  it  had  been  always  her  home,  with 
a  half  smile  in  her  eyes  for  everybody 
they  fell  upon,  that  prophesied  friendship 
as  soon  as  they  should  know  each  other. 
Madam  Galbraith  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  looking  after  her,  with  her 
gray  eyes  nearly  closed,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  that  sounded  like  a  whistle. 

"  Our  mountain  air  !"  gasped  one  of 
the  matrons  to  whom  Mary  Jennings 
had  brought  milk  for  many  a  day. 

"  My  daughter-in-law  no  doubt  as- 
sumed a  new  face  and  new  manners  to 
suit  the  world  in  which  she  lived,"  tartly, 
scowling  on  the  speaker.  "  But  '  Tur- 
pis  Romatio  Belgicus  ore  color,''  "  she 
added  in  a  lower  tone.  She  had  been 
a  bit  of  a  Latin  scholar,  and  kept  some 
odd  fragments  yet  with  which  to  appall 
weaker  woman. 

But  inwardly  she  only  said,  over  and 
over,  to  herself,  "  Tom's  wife  ?  Tom's 
wife?"  Her  big  bones  and  her  home- 
liness never  had  oppressed  her  as  now, 
in  the  presence  of  the  daintiness  of  the 
woman  for  whom  Tom  had  left  her ;  but 
the  heart  beneath  them  never  was  so 
sore,  or  willing  to  be  tender. 

Honora  followed  up  the  stairs  in  a 
new  flutter  of  admiration.  Mrs.  Duf- 
field tripped  before  her  into  the  room, 
threw  her  cloak  on  the  bed,  spread  out 
her  fingers  before  the  fire :  as  usual,  her 
every  pose  and  motion  was  confident, 
complete :  she  took  possession  of  the 
scene,  as  it  were,  by  each,  and  made 
herself  first  actress  in  it.  If  she  had 
been  in  the  Sahara  desert,  she  would 
have    done    the    same    thing.        Nora 


56 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


brought  her  her  satchel,  uncorked  the 
perfume-bottles  for  her,  forgetting  to  be 
shy  and  awkward  in  her  eager,  dumb 
attention  ;  standing  by  her  as  she  loos- 
ened the  waves  of  chestnut  hair,  and 
pushed  it  back  from  her  peachy  cheeks. 
This  was  a  higher  type  of  beauty  than 
even  Rose  and  Gerty's  ;  and  this  man- 
ner !  Honora  secretly  determined  to 
copy  it  diligently. 

There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  work 
upon  the  details  of  that  chamber.  Even 
the  servants  had  caught  the  idea  of  old 
Madam  Galbraith  when  she  superintend- 
ed its  arrangement.  The  lowest  among 
them  knew  that  Tom's  wife  was  coming 
back  forgiven  to  long-offended  authority, 
and  did  their  best  to  express  that  for- 
giveness in  every  pleasant  little  detail 
of  comfort,  and  to  give  her  the  idea  of  a 
home.  But  incurious,  winning  little  Mrs. 
Duffield  was  apparently  blind  to  offence, 
forgiveness,  or  offered  welcome.  Her 
gray  eyes  swept  over  the  room,  and 
speedily  the  easiest  chair  was  drawn  to 
the  warmest  corner.  She  changed  her 
dress  for  a  flowing  wrapper,  and  then 
ensconced  herself  in  it. 

"  Now,  my  dear  girl,  a  footstool.  Ah-h ! 
this  is  comfort.  I  wonder,  madam,  are 
they  bringing  my  tea  ?  Pray,  do  not 
ring  !  I  was  just  born  to  be  a  trouble  !" 
with  a  blush  and  laugh  of  deprecation  to 
the  person  she  addressed,  a  small  wo- 
man, in  a  dress  of  dull  chocolate-color, 
with  a  pale,  sensible-looking  face,  who 
had  been  standing  by  the  fire  when  they 
entered.  She  rang  for  the  tea,  as  it  was 
her  place  to  do,  being  the  housekeeper,  but 
she  forgot  her  place  afterward,  standing 
in  the  background,  watching  every  move- 
ment of  the  stranger  with  a  curious, 
breathless  interest. 

The  scrutiny  did  not  at  all  disturb 
Mrs.  Duffield.  Mentally,  perhaps,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  comparing  the 
Western  servants  with  those  of  the  East, 
but  she  said  nothing.  When  an  over- 
loaded tray  was  brought  in,  too,  although 
she  merely  pecked  bits  of  the  various 
dishes,  like  a  bird,  she  passed  none  by 
untasted  nor  unpraised.  While  she  was 
eating — 

"Now,  my  dear,"  to  Honora,  "could 


you  not  ask  that  delightful,  curious  old 
lady  down  stairs — your  aunt,  I  believe — 
to  come  up  and  take  a  cup  of  this  de- 
licious tea?  I  should  so  enjoy  a  cozy 
chat  with  her  !  She  would  find  it  much 
easier  to  become  acquainted  with  me 
thus,  en  deshabille.  What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at,  child  ?" 

Honora  checked  her  laugh,  but  stopped, 
with  a  puzzled  face,  to  stir  the  fire  and 
lower  the  curtains  before  she  went  to 
execute  her  venturous  errand.  She 
found  Madam  Galbraith  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  men,  discussing  the  chances 
of  coal  in  a  new  mine  she  had  just  opened.  \/ 
Her  opinion  was  counted  as  heavier 
than  that  of  most  men  in  the  county, 
usually,  being  weighted  both  by  money 
and  a  broad,  far-seeing  business  insight. 
She  had  made  herself,  too,  what  none 
of  them  were — a  practical  geologist.  She 
was  talking  vehemently  when  Honora 
came  in : 

"Our  young  men  go  scampering  off 
to  raise  cattle  in  Texas,  or  lay  out  ague- 
land  along  the  Wabash,  and  turn  their 
backs  on  our  own  soil  without  once 
looking  into  it.  It's  the  richest  land  in 
the  Union,  sir!  I  know  it.  Why,  even 
the  water  of  my  creek  yonder  burns  with 
fatness.  Well,  Honora,  what  is  it?"  as 
she  pulled  her  sleeve.  "Wants  to  see 
me,  eh?  In  her  own  room?"  a  pleased 
softening  coming  over  her  whole  face. 
"  I  see,  poor  child !  She  wants  to  make 
sure  of  my  forgiveness,"  under  her  breath. 
"Pray,  excuse  me,  gentlemen." 

Honora  ran  quickly  before  her.  She 
met  the  housekeeper  coming  out  of  Mrs. 
Duffield's  room,  and  found  that  lady  sip- 
ping her  tea  in  an  agitated  manner,  her 
cheek  a  trifle  less  deep  in  its  peach- 
bloom. 

"That  is  a  most  extraordinary  woman, 
Miss  Dundas.  I  think  she  is  a  little  de- 
ranged. She  watched  me  in  so  peculiar 
a  manner  that  I  asked  her  if  she  had 
business  with  me,  and  she  replied  that 
she  had  hoped  for  my  help,  but  that  she 
feared  she  had  trusted  to  a  broken  reed. 
She  is  a  lunatic,  evidently.  I  will  speak 
to  Madam  Galbraith  about  her  imme- 
diately." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not,  Mrs.  Duffield," 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


57 


eagerly.  "She's  entirely  sane.  Why, 
she's  one  of  the  few  people  I  know  who, 
I  think,  have  something  to  do  in  the 
world.     I'm  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Oh !"  looking  at  Nora  with  an  amused, 
palliating  smile.  "  But  you  are  so  young, 
my  dear !  I  assure  you  that  she  is  de- 
ranged. People  who  think  they  have  a 
mission,  that  way,  get  one  idea  in  their 
brains  and  go  butting  their  heads  against 
everybody  with  it.  You  meet  plenty  of 
such  people  in  the  East.  You  may  safely 
set  down  anybody  who  is  very  much  in 
earnest  as  being  unsound  in  their  intel- 
lect. But  here  is  your  aunt,"  rising 
and  putting  out  her  white  hand  with  a 
winning  smile. 

"Yes,  I'm  here.  You  may  go  down, 
Honora.  Just  ring  for  this  tray  to 
be  taken  away.  So  you  wanted  to  see 
the  old  mother,  child?"  putting  her  big 
arm  over  the  other  woman's  shoulder 
and  looking  gently  in  her  face. 

"Yes  ;  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  you  here.  Do  take  a  cup  of  tea. 
I'm  very  fond  of  tea,"  chirruped  Mrs. 
Duffield. 

"  Are  you,  my  dear  ?  It  always  seemed 
a  faddling  kind  of  drink  to  me.  I  drink 
water.  Sometimes  home-brewed  ale. 
Sit  down,  sit  down."  She  placed  Tom's 
wife  back  among  the  dainty  frills  of  the 
blue  chintz  chair  and  looked  down  at 
her  a  minute,  as  she  might  at  a  pretty 
picture ;  then  sat  down  herself  in  front 
of  the  fire,  a  hand  on  each  knee,  waiting 
for  the  servant  to  leave  the  room,  her 
eyes  bent  thoughtfully  on  the  floor,  her 
face  growing  corrugated  and  stern. 

The  door  closed  at  last.  She  gave 
herself  a  mastiff-like  shake,  turning  to 
tlie  sweet-looking  httle  woman,  who  lay 
back  stirring  the  tea  in  the  cup  which 
she  had  retained,  admiring  its  amber 
tint  in  the  firelight. 

"  You  had  something  to  tell  me,  my 
dear? 

"  No,"  nodding  brightly.  "  Nothing 
in  especial.  I  thought  we  would  talk 
of  old  times  or  friends  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, perhaps.  I  have  been  a  long  time 
away." 

Mary  Jennings  ?  The  old  lady 
gave   one   haughty   sniff",    then   checked 


herself  "You  have  suffered  a  great 
deal  since  then,  they  tell  me,"  with  great 
gentleness  in  her  masculine  tones — "a 
great  deal  of  poverty  and  want  which 
never  should  have  been  the  lot  of  my 
son's  wife.  I'm  glad  that  you  chose  to 
talk  to  me  about  it.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  have  some  fear  of  the  old  dragon, 
even  now." 

The  fresh-tinted  face  looked  at  her 
steadily  over  the  cup  until  she  had  quite 
finished.  "  My  dear  Madam  Galbraith," 
Mrs.  Duffield  then  said,  calmly,  "you 
have  never  suff"ered  poverty  or  want,  or 
you  would  know  how  silly  it  is  to  go 
loack  to  rake  up  their  ashes.  /  never 
do  it,"  and  she  lifted  the  spoon  to  her 
lips  again  with  a  firm  hand. 

"  You  are  very  wise,"  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "  You'll  think  me  a  brute  to 
drag  it  up  again.  I  was  unkind  and 
unfeeUng." 

"  No,  no  !" 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  dogmatically.  "  You 
wished  to  talk  to  me  of  Tom  ?" 

Mrs.  Dufifield  was  silent  a  moment : 
then  she  drank  all  there  was  in  the  cup 
hastily,  as  if  to  check  some  words  that 
would  have  risen  to  her  lips.  "  No.  I 
did  not  wish  to  speak  of  Tom,"  slowly. 
"  He  was  a  dear,  good  fellow,  and  I  was 
very  fond  of  him.  But  we'll  not  talk  of 
him,  if  you  please." 

His  mother  looked  at  her  long  and 
shrewdly.  "  I  believe  you.  I  believe, 
whatever  were  your  faults,  that  you  were 
fond  of  him  and  tried  to  do  your  duty  to 
him.  I  heard  that  you  supported  him 
during  the  last  years  by  sewing — that 
no  wife  could  be  more  faithful  or  for- 
bearing." 

"  By  sewing,  or  sometimes  by  wash- 
ing," in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  There 
was  no  merit  about  it.  He  was  not 
able  to  work,  and  I  was  ;  and  we  had  to 
live.  What  a  fine  view  of  the  mountain 
gap  there  is  from  that  window  !" 

"  Not  able  to  work  ?  Wliose  fault 
was  that  ?"  in  the  identical  bitter  key 
with  which  she  used  to  rate  her  drunken 
boy.  "  He  gave  up  father  and  mother, 
and  manhood  itself,  for  liquor.  And  at 
the  last  to  hang  on  to  Mary  Jennings' 
hands  for  his  food  !" 


58 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


"  Mary  Jennings  has  never  complained 
of  him.  I  told  you  I  would  not  talk  of 
Tom,  least  of  all  malign  him  when  he  is 
dead.  He  was  a  good,  generous  fellow. 
He  would  have  clothed  me  in  velvets  if 
he  could." 

"  He  left  it  for  another  husband  to  do 
that,"  savagely. 

"  Yes.  Captain  Duffield  always  dressed 
me  well.  He  had  ample  means,  you 
know.  But  it  was  a  matter  of  pride 
with  him.  I  do  not  think,  indeed,  that 
my  second  husband  was  what  you  would 
call  a  generous  man." 

"  Will  you  answer  me  some  questions, 
freely  and  fully .?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  smiling  pleasantly. 

"About  your  past  hfe.  It  was  partly 
for  that  reason  I  sent  for  you  here." 

The  white  forehead  knit  itself  im- 
patiently for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  She  rose  and  placed  her 
empty  cup  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  then 
settled  herself  comfortably  back.  "  I 
will  tell  you  anything  you  wish  to  know. 
But  let  us  be  brief,  please.  I  never  go 
back  to  find  trouble,  and  it  is  so  wonder- 
fully pleasant  here  !"  with  a  little  shrug 
of  enjoyment  through  her  graceful  little 
body. 

"  Is  it,  my  dear  ?  I  hope  you'll  find 
it  like  home  to  you.  I  wish  you  to  be 
happy  here.  I  think  you  were  fond  of 
Tom." 

"Oh,  I  am  at  home  anywhere!" 
cheerily. 

"It  was  of  your  second  marriage  that 
I  wished  to  speak,"  for  she  had  not 
courage  to  utter  the  real  question  aloud  : 
now  that  the  time  had  come,  her  heart 
seemed  to  choke  and  halt  in  the  ponde- 
rous, steady  beat  which  it  had  kept  up 
for  sixty  years.    She  began  far  off  from  it. 

"  My  second  marriage  .''  You  have 
heard  some  unkind  stories  of  Captain 
Duffield,  I  suppose  ?"  flushing  a  little. 
"  There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  gossip 
carried  back  here  about  him,  and  his 
abuse  of  me,  but  I  will  not  discuss  it. 
He  is  dead  now,  and  these  very  clothes 
that  I  wear  are  paid  for  with  his  money. 
r  don't  spare  it  in  that  way.  I  know  he 
would  be  better  satisfied  to  have  it  so. 
He  had  very  good  taste  in  dress." 


"Yes.  The  gossip  says  that  that 
will  account  for  your  marrying  him." 

"  That  is  unjust,"  after  a  pause. 

"  There  is  another  cause  given,  which, 
perhaps,  is  nearer  the  truth  :  that  you 
and  your  boy  were  starving,  and  you  did 
it  for  his  sake." 

There  was  no  answer.  Mrs.  Duffield 
had  her  face  turned  from  her. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  this  to  pain  you, 
God  knows  !  But  I  have  a  right  to 
know  something  of  my  grandson." 

"  Dallas  is  dead."  The  voice  sounded 
like  that  of  another  woman. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  he  is  dead.  I 
never  believed  it.  I  am  a  strong  woman. 
I  have  great  property.  I  can  give  to 
him  more  love  and  power  in  the  world 
than  a  hundred  weak  women  do  to  their 
sons.  I  never  believed  God  would  leave 
me  an  old,  dry,  barren  stock.  I  wish  to 
know  from  you  what  manner  of  boy  my 
grandson  is,  and  how  you  lost  him,  as 
plainly  and  directly  as  you  can  tell  me." 

But  Mrs.  Duffield,  instead  of  replying, 
got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  from 
whence  the  mountain  view  opened,  and 
stood  there,  her  face  resting  on  her 
hand,  regardless  of  the  heavy  steps  of 
Madam  Galbraith  walking  impatiently 
to  and  fro.  After  a  while  she  turned. 
The  old  woman  could  see  no  change  in 
her  face,  and  broke  out  again : 

"  I  believe  you  cannot  understand  the 
craving  I  have  for  that  boy.  He  is  the 
last  chance  for  me  that  my  flesh  and 
blood  shall  live  in  the  world.  I'm  a 
lonesome  old  woman  at  times.  What  you 
can  understand  is,  that  I  need  an  heir. 
Honora  is  but  a  chit  of  a  girl.  I  grudge 
the  place  to  her.  If  my  boy  had  lived, 
I  could  have  given  him  a  position 
stronger  than  any  man  in  the  West." 

Mrs.  Duffield  seated  herself  again, 
stretching  out  both  her  hands  over  the 
fire,  as  if  she  were  chilly.  When  she 
spoke,  it  was  with  her  ordinary  courte- 
ous quiet.  Something  was  lost  from 
the  quality  of  her  voice,  but  Madam 
Galbraith's  ear  was  too  coarse  or  care- 
less to  discern  it. 

"  The  place  you  could  give  him  does 
not  import  anything  now,"  she  said. 
"  That  was  but  a  small  matter." 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


59 


"You  have  not  answered  my  ques- 
tion," sternly.  "  I  have  a  right  to  know 
something  of  the  boy." 

His  mother  hesitated  before  answer- 
ing. ''Yes,  you  are  Tom's  mother,"  she 
said,  at  last,  in  a  low  tone.  "Well,  there 
is  not  much  to  tell.  When  I  married 
Captain  Duffield,  he  promised  that  Dal- 
las sjiould  be  reared  as  his  own  son." 

"  Out  with  the  whole  truth  !  You 
married  him  to  keep  the  boy  from  want. 
Why  did  you  not  apply  to  me  V 

"  No,  I  would  not  do  that.  I  was 
determined  that  Mary  Jennings'  child 
never  should  come  to  you  for  alms.  I 
had  some  spirit,  some  pride  then,  before 
my  little  boy  died.  Now — well,  I  think 
the  world  owes  me  some  comfort  and  a 
living,"  with  a  laugh  which  was  not 
pleasant. 

"  Go  on.      Dallas — ?" 

"  Captain  Duffield  did  not  keep  his 
promise,"  hurriedly.  "  He  petted  and 
fondled  me  at  first,  but  he  always  hated 
the  boy.  He  was  a  devil !  Then,  when 
the  abuse  began  to  extend  to  me,  Dallas 
fancied  that  it  was  on  his  account — that 
if  he  were  gone,  his  mother  would  be 
taken  into  favor  again.     And  then — " 

"  What  ?     Why  do  you  stop  ?" 

"  He  left  me.  He  ran  away,"  stand- 
ing up  and  turning  her  face  to  her. 
Madam  Galbraith  drew  back,  startled, 
when  she  looked  at  it,  and  then  put  out 
her  hand  soothingly. 

"  Is  that  all  you  want  to  know  ?  I 
never  have  named  my  boy  since  he  died 
until  this  day." 

"  One  moment.     He  died  ?" 

"  I  traced  him  to  the  coal-mines  at 
Scranton.  I  thought  I  saw  him  the 
morning  I  came  there,  among  the  dig- 
gers, but  that  very  night  there  was  an 
explosion  in  the  pits,  and  he  was  in 
them." 

Madam  Galbraith  did  not  renew  her 
offered  sympathy.  She  went  stalking 
up  and  down,  her  arms  folded,  mutter- 
ing at  intervals  in  answer  to  her  own 
thoughts.  Mrs.  Duffield  looked  up  at 
her  at  last.  "  I  must  ask  you  to  let  me 
have  rest,  Madam  Galbraith.  I  must 
be  alone." 

"  Certainly.      I  will  leave  you  alone, 


my  dear.  But  tell  me  first,  did  you  ever 
find  that  boy's  body  ?" 

"  No." 

"Well,  then — but  no  matter  what  I 
think.      It's  all  clear  to  me,  however." 

Mrs.  Duffield  waited  until  the  door 
was  closed  behind  her :  then  she  locked 
and  bolted  it,  and,  throwing  herself  on 
the  bed,  cried  long  and  bitterly.  But 
silently,  without  either  moan  or  sob  :  it 
dully  seemed  to  her  as  if,  with  her  dead 
boy,  something  in  herself  had  died,  for 
which  she  ought  to  make  moan  as  much 
as  for  Dallas.  She  fell  asleep  after  a 
while,  tired  out ;  but  when,  some  hours 
afterwards,  the  great  bell  sounded  for 
dinner,  she  arose  refreshed,  and  began  to 
dress  carefully.  It  was  a  favorite  dress 
that  she  wore  that  evening — a  pale  brown 
silk,  with  lace  on  the  bosom  and  at  the 
wrists,  and  at  her  throat  a  pearl  clasp, 
to  match  a  rins;  on  her  hand. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

There  was  a  foot-bridge  which  cross- 
ed a  mountain-stream  within  sight  of  the 
house  ;  and  that  evening,  when  the  innu- 
merable lights  began  to  twinkle  from  the 
windows  just  before  dusk,  a  man  was 
pacing  to  and  fro  on  it,  with  slow,  grave 
and  somewhat  uncertain  steps.  The 
athletic  build  of  the  man — liis  features, 
cut  in  a  few  bold  and  fine  hnes,  as  if  by 
a  master's  hand,  who  intended  the  face 
to  express  a  great  thought,  should,  to 
be  in  keeping,  have  carried  with  them 
a  certain  elasticity,  vim,  buoyancy.  But 
his  voice,  when  he  bade  "Good-day"  to 
some  passers-by,  was  marked  by  the 
same  slow  gravity  and  uncertainty  as 
his  motions,  and  his  look  had  a  curious, 
hesitating  quality  in  it,  as  of  a  man  set 
down  in  an  unknown  world,  who  held 
his  own  force  in  reserve,  and  tested  the 
worth  of  the  place  or  people  who  came 
beneath  his  eye.  Now  and  then,  how- 
ever, he  stretched  his  arms  and  drew 
vigorous  breaths  of  the  nipping  air,  sud- 
denly looking  up  to  the  mountain  as  if 
air  and  mountains  were  new  to  him :  keen 
pleasure  flashing  into  his  face  ;   but  it 


6o 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


was  observable  that  he  neither  sang  nor 
whistled  at  these  times,  as  a  young  man 
would  be  apt  to  do,  gayly ;  that  he  kept 
the  fur  cap  which  he  wore  closely  drawn 
over  his  forehead,  not  removing  it  to  the 
passers-b}-,  in  the  country  fashion  ;  even 
clasping  his  bare  hands  behind  him,  when 
they  came  up,  nervously,  as  if  his  flesh 
were  in  some  sort  disgraced,  and  he  con- 
cealed it  even  from  himself.  As  the  dusk 
came  on,  he  stopped  from  time  to  time, 
shading  his  eyes  and  looking  intently  up 
the  road  that  led  to  the  long,  lighted  front 
of  the  Galbraith  homestead;  but  it  was 
not  until  the  moon  began  to  whiten 
the  edges  of  the  distant  mountains,  and 
throw  their  melancholy  shadows  over 
the  sloping  farms  and  glistening  creeks 
below,  that  he  saw  a  small,  cloaked 
figure  crossing  a  stubble-field  toward 
him,  the  only  moving  object  in  the  lonely 
twilight. 

He  was  in  the  shadow  when  he  first 
saw  her,  and  came  hurriedly  out  into  the 
moonlight  to  meet  her.  It  had  become 
a  fault  of  the  man,  perhaps,  to  dislike 
concealment — to  drag  everything  into 
too  open  a  hght.  The  woman  was  short 
and  solidly  built,  dressed  in  some  dull 
brown  color,  as  he  perceived  when  she 
pulled  off  her  cloak,  which  she  did  when 
she  saw  him,  hastily,  as  if  stifled  and 
feverish  from  repressed  excitement. 
When  she  came  up  to  him,  however, 
she  put  out  her  hands  without  any  show 
of  haste. 

"  Lizzy  ?" 

"Yes,  Dallas."  But  in  spite  of  her 
quiet,  her  eyes  passed  over  his  face  with 
the  hunger  with  which  they  might  look 
at  one  given  back  to  her  from  the  grave. 

After  that  first  greeting,  they  walked, 
side  by  side,  silently  down  the  road  to 
the  pier  of  the  little  bridge.  He  stopped 
there. 

"  Take  oflF  your  hood,  Lizzy." 

She  obeyed  him,  going  out  where  the 
white  light  fell  full  on  her  prim  figure 
and  face.  Something  like  his  old  quiz- 
zical smile  came  up  on  his  face  as  he 
looked  over  the  smooth  hair,  the  black 
silk  apron,  the  knitting  stuck  in  its 
sheath.  For  five  years  Elizabeth  Byrne 
had  been  planning  and  looking  forward, 


in  her  sensible,  practical  way,  to  this 
night,  when  the  boy  should  be  free 
again  :  now  if  had  come  she  could  have 
cried  and  sobbed  over  him  like  any 
other  hysterical  woman.  But  she  only 
took  his  hand  up  suddenly. 

"  It's  just  the  old  Lizzy,  Dallas,"  and 
then  let  it  fall  again. 

He  nodded  gravely.  Presently  he 
put  out  his  hand,  unseen  by  her,  and  felt 
with  his  finger  and  thumb  the  little 
shawl  which  she  wore,  one  of  Mana- 
squan  weaving,  with  the  same  slow, 
amused  smile. 

"  I  knew  I  would  find  you  as  you 
are,"  he  said.  "After  the  first  letter 
you  sent  to  me,  in  the  worst  days  I 
thought  of  you  as  the  one  thing  un- 
altered in  the  world  to  me." 

She  listened  eagerly,  her  head  bent 
down,  noting  every  slowly-pronounced 
word  or  inflection  of  tone,  as  if  by  it 
she  sought  to  read  something  that  was 
hid  beneath. 

-  "I  meant  to  tell  you,  Lizzy,  to-night, 
all  that  I  owed  to  you." 

"  No,  Dallas,  no." 

"  No.  Only  this  :  that  twice,  when  all 
my  own  courage  and  strength  were  gone, 
and  I  had  the  means  in  my  hand  to  rid 
myself  of  the  hell  I  was  in,  I  lived  on, 
only  that  I  might  not  disappoint  you." 

"  That  is  over.  You  will  make  the 
best  of  your  life  now,  for  my  sake  ?" 

"  For  my  own — for  my  own,  Lizzy," 
with  a  manly  heartiness  in  his  voice 
that  warmed  the  blood  in  her  heart. 
"  I'm  but  a  young  man.  It  came  to  me 
suddenly  one  day,  when  I  had  been  there 
but  a  year,  how  young  I  was,  the  strength 
and  health  that  was  in  me,  the  long  life 
that  was  before  me  to  fight  down  what- 
ever it  was  that  had  dragged  me  back." 

"  The  devil,  Dallas,"  nodding  senten- 
tiously.  "  It  is  Satan  who  brings  for- 
tune as  unjust  as  yours  was  on  any  man." 

"  Whatever  it  is,  is  strongest  in  the 
world,  Lizzy — call  it  God,  or  devil,  as 
you  will.  If  a  man  succeeds,  it  is  by 
virtue  of  his  own  skill  or  honesty  or 
virtue ;  though,  in  spite  of  these,  he  can't 
keep  out  disease  or  death  at  the  last. 
I've  had  some  time  to  think  it  over. 
But  I  did  not  come  here  to  argue  theology 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


6i 


with  you.  I  determined  that  day  to 
make  the  best  of  my  life,  and  I've  not 
lost  an  hour  since  in  whining  or  in  idle- 
ness." 

Whenever  he  spoke,  she  fell  into  the 
same  observant,  watchful  attitude.  He 
noted  it  anxiously.  "  Why  do  3'ou  listen 
to  me  ?"  hastily.  "  Have  I  caught  the 
prison-accent  ?  I  used  some  unusual  or 
vulgar  word  without  knowing  it?" 

"  It  was  not  your  accent  I  thought  of. 
But  there  is  a  great  change  in  it.  You 
speak  English  :  correctly,  as  far  as  I  know. 
But  with  etTort — as  a  foreigner  would." 

He  gave  a  pleased,  boyish  laugh.  "  I 
tell  you,  Lizzy,  I've  had  myself  in  train- 
ing since  that  day.  Night  and  day,  in 
the  vilest  ward  of  the  Albany  prison. 
There  has  not  been  a  look  or  a  word  or 
a  thought  with  which  I  have  not  tried  to 
work  up  out  of  that  slough,  to  make  a 
man  of  myself.  What  to  avoid  was 
plain  enough :  it  was  the  very  air  I 
breathed.  The  chaplain  was  very  kind. 
He  got  me  off  hours  from  work,  gave 
me  books  besides  those  which  you  sent 
to  me — books  on  my  old  drudgery, 
chemistr}-,  and  the  like.  Drudgery,  but 
somehow  I  could  not  live  without  it." 

"  The  five  years  have  not  been  alto- 
gether a  gap  in  your  life,  then  ?" 

"  No.  But  after  to-night  we'll  speak 
of  them  no  more."  He  was  silent. 
Presently,  a  hickory  bough,  on  which  he 
had  been  leaning,  snapped,  as  if  it  were 
a  straw  in  his  hand.  He  threw  it  down, 
turning  to  her  again :  "  So  much  of  my 
life  was  given  up  to — let  us  say  justice. 
I  will  not  begrudge  any  sacrifice  I  made. 
But  it  is  done  with  now.  To-morrow  I 
will  begin  again,  a  new  man.  I  am 
not  so  far  behind  my  fellows." 

Still  the  same  eager  watchfulness 
when  he  spoke,  a  silent  scrutiny  of 
something  apart  from  and  below  the 
meaning  of  what  he  said.  He  was  con- 
scious of  it,  uneasily. 

"  You  find  me  altered,  Lizzy  ?" 

'•  I  have  scarcely  yet  seen  your  face," 
evasively. 

He  put  up  his  hand  to  remove  the 
cap,  but  let  it  fall  again.  "Some  other 
time,"  he  said,  hurriedly — "some  other 
time." 


"Why  did  you  never  admit  me  to  see 
you,  Galbraith.''  I  came  with  a  permit 
three  times,  and  was  turned  away  by 
your  wish,  they  said.'"' 

"Did  you  think  I  would  be  seen  by 
you — there?  You  do  not  understand 
men,  Lizzy,"  with  a  bitter  laugh,  and 
then  was  silent. 

He  fell  into  this  grave  silence  at  the 
end  of  every  sentence,  as  though  a  diffi- 
cult, useless  task  was  over,  of  which  he 
was  glad  to  be  free.  The  poor  Mana- 
squan  girl  began  to  think  she  did  not  un- 
derstand men.  Five  years  ago,  a  wrong,  ^, 
wliich  seemed  to  her  more  cruel  than 
death,  had  been  done  to  this  boy,  of 
whom  she  was  fond;  and  because  she 
was  fond  of  him,  or  for  some  deeper 
reason,  it  had  been  plain  to  her  that  the 
wrong  must  be  atoned  for.  What  she 
had  done  to  this  end,  what  given  up,  she 
only  knew.  She  had  looked,  to-day,  to 
receive  the  boy,  the  wreck  of  what  he 
was,  in  body  and  mind;  diseased,  re- 
vengeful, vicious,  perhaps.  She  was 
prepared  for  that.  It  was  in  her  to  care 
for  him  during  the  rest  of  her  life  with 
a  mother's  tenderness.  It  seemed  to 
her  but  just  that  she,  of  all  other  people 
living,  should  do  this  thing. 

But  it  was  a  man  that  was  before  her ; 
strong,  heady,  reticent ;  swayed,  she  saw, 
by  some  dominant  purpose,  which  she 
could  not  discern ;  with  all  his  old  out- 
ward frankness,  yet  holding  his  own  and 
her  secret  thoughts  in  check.  He, 
"passing  through  the  valley  of  misery," 
had  found  in  it  a  well  from  which  he 
drank  stronger  waters  than  any  she  had 
known ;  whether  good  or  ill,  she  had  no 
means  to  know.  His  tone,  his  manner, 
his  look  were  unanswering  to  her. 

"Women  like  me  can  hardly  under- 
stand a  man,"  she  broke  out  impetuously ; 
"  but  I  have  instinct,  hke  a  dog,  Dallas ; 
and  though  you  should  not  say  a  word 
of  it  to  me,  I  know  that  I  have  made 
a  mistake.  I  can  serve  you  but  little. 
You're  no  longer  the  same  clay  that  I 
am  :  you've  grown  beyond  and  outside 
of  me.  My  plans  may  do  you  harm,  if 
they  touch  you  at  all." 

"Is  it  so,  Lizzy?  Then  it  is  I  who 
am    in    fault,"    with    a    good-tempered. 


62 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


soothing  smile.  "What  plans  have  you 
made  ?  Had  I  a  share  in  them  ?  How 
is  it  that  you  are  here  ?"  his  tone  abruptly 
changing.  "  I  thought  of  you  always  as 
at — the  old  place.  Married,  perhaps," 
with  studied  composure. 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  married.  Nothing 
has  happened  to  me  of  which  I  could 
make  a  story  for  you.  You  know  why 
I  wrote  for  you  to  come  here  ?  You 
will  trust  me  that  I  did  the  best  I  knew, 
however  it  may  end  ?" 

"  I  trusted  you,  or  I  would  not  have 
come.  All  the  money  I  have  made 
there  barely  sufficed  to  buy  these  cheap 
clothes  and  bring  me  here.  I've 
learned  to  count  the  cents,  yonder,  you 
see." 

She  hesitated.  "You  did  not  receive 
a  package  from  me,  then?" 

"Yes,"  gravely.  "But  I  can  take 
nothing  from  you  but  advice,  Lizzy.  I 
am  a  man,  now." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  let  your  pride 
hinder  my  plans,  Dallas,"  timidly.  "  Do 
you  know  where  you  are  ?" 

"Yes,"  quietly.  "I  learned  it  to-day. 
This  is  the  Galbraith  land,  that  should 
have  been  my  father's,  and,  some  day, 
mine.  That  is  his  mother's  house  yon- 
der?" 

"Yes." 

"You  wrote  that  there  was  an  open- 
ing here  for  me.  Did  you  bring  me  to 
ask  alms  of  her  ?" 

"Not  alms.  Hear  reason,  Dallas," 
catching  his  arm.  "You  brought  your 
pictures  with  you?  You  believe  still  in 
tlie  talent  you  have  ?" 

"I've  had  nothing  to  shake  my  faith 
in  it,"  his  voice  growing  pleased  and 
confident.  "  Genius  or  not,  no  prison 
was  able  to  bar  it  out  from  me.  The 
pictures  were  called  wonders  in  their 
way.  I,"  hesitating,  "had  difficulty  in 
tlieir  making." 

"  Madam  Galbraith  is  a  lavish  patron, 
Dallas.  She  is  no  mean  judge  of  art, 
they  tell  me.  Her  money  rusts  in  her 
hands ;  and  she  uses  it  at  times  to  edu- 
cate poor  young  men.  Since  I  have 
known  her  she  has  sent  a  painter  and 
musician  both  to  study  in  Rome." 

He  listened  silently  as  she  stammered 


through.     "And,    as    I    supposed,    you 
wish  me  to  share  in  her  bounty?" 

"  I  wish  you  to  share  in  what  is  your 
own,"  energetically.  "  You  are  the  heir. 
You  have  a  right  to  the  very  sums  which 
she  is  squandering." 

"  In  a  word,  I  am  the  last  of  the  Gal- 
braiths.  I  heard  to-day  that  she  has 
chosen  as  her  heir  an  innocent  young 
girl.  Look  at  this."  He  drew  off  his 
cap  and  let  the  light  fall  on  the  close 
shaven  head  and  on  a  brass  ticket  which 
he  wore  inside  of  his  coat,  on  which 
was  engraven  a  number,  "/am  a  con- 
vict. Number  seventy-nine.  For  five 
years  I  have  had  no  name  nor  place  in "" 
the  world  other  than  that  label  and  the 
crime  attached  to  it.  Am  I  in  a  fit  case 
to  claim  my  inheritance  ?"  The  grave 
reasonableness  in  his  voice  alarmed  and 
dismayed  her,  being  beyond  her  compre- 
hension. She  made  a  woman's  answer 
by  pulling  at  the  ticket  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  as  though  the  years  of  which  it 
was  the  sign  could  be  destroyed  with  it. 
It  made  his  prison-life  real  to  her  for  the 
first  time. 

He  put  her  back  gently.  "  No  ;  I 
wish  to  wear  it  still.     I  have  a  reason." 

Lizzy  sat  down  on  a  heap  of  stones  and 
said  nothing.  It  did  not  matter  whether 
she  ever  spoke  again,  she  thought.  Her 
plan  had  been  that  she  would  bring 
Madam  Galbraith  and  her  heir  together 
by  means  of  his  skill  as  an  artist,  and 
that,  when  occasion  came,  the  discovery 
would  be  made  and  he  would  be  lifted 
at  once  into  the  purple  and  sunshine ; 
marry  Honora,  perhaps,  and  end  all  like 
a  fortunate  fairy-tale.  The  plan  had  \ 
seemed  to  her  commonplace  and  prac-  ' 
tical :  now  it  stood  in  its  true  light — a 
womanish,  weak,  fanciful  vagary.  She 
looked  up  when  he  began  to  speak  again 
slow  and  deliberately: 

"  I  have  a  reason  for  keeping  that 
prison-life  before  me,  and  for  making 
what  hasty  strides  I  can  towards  fortune. 
I  can  push  my  way  in  the  drug  business. 
I  know  what  the  books  can  teach  me, 
and  there's  a  place  where  I  cm  get  a 
foothold.  But  that  will  be  slow,  and 
hard  work.  Now  these — "  he  touched 
a  small  roll  which  he  carried  with  a  sud- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITII. 


63 


den  lightening  in  his  face.  "  If  I  have 
anv  power,  it  is  as  an  artist.  If  she 
were  to  buy  them  at  a  liberal  price,  it 
would  enable  me  to  follow  my  art  for 
life.  It  would  help  me  sooner  to  my 
other  purpose." 

"  You  will  conquer  both  fortune  and 
fame,  Dallas.  Some  day  you  will 
marry — ''  But  she  had  put  the  fancy 
about  Honora  aside.  The  man  moved 
and  talked  laboriously,  painfully  mould- 
ing himself  into  some  fancied  likeness  of 
a  gentleman. 

"  I  have  not  thought  of  marriage  since 
I  was  a  boy.  There  is  a  woman,  if  she 
be  not  dead,  whom  I  would  like  to  see 
before  I  die — when  I  make  myself  a 
man  of  whom  she  would  not  be 
ashamed." 

Lizzy's  heart  suffered  a  sudden  qualm 
as  she  thought  of  his  mother  yonder  at 
the  house,  and  of  what  she  was.  What 
if  she  had  searched  out  these  kinsfolk 
of  his.  and  dragged  him  here  to  face  them, 
only  to  work  iU  ? 

But  she  would  risk  it.  "  Are  those  the 
pictures  ?  Come  with  them,  then,  to 
Madam  Galbraith  ;"  and  drawing  her 
cloak  about  her,  she  went  on  before, 
hastily,  without  giving  him  time  to  answer. 
Dallas  followed,  in  his  usual  slow,  hesita- 
ting gait,  covering  his  pictures  with  his 
coat  to  protect  them  from  the  dampness 
as  tenderly  as  a  mother  would  her  baby. 

She  saw  him  several  times,  as  they 
went,  stoop  and  dig  out  some  root  \\'ith 
his  fingers,  as  if  the  old  habit  were  too 
strong  for  him  ;  tasting  them,  and  smell- 
ing the  mould  on  his  fingers  with  a  long 
breath  :  once,  when  he  saw  that  she  de- 
tected him,  he  got  up  hastily  with  a 
nervous  laugh,  saying,  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don. I  begin  to  understand  that  I  am 
a  free  man." 


CHAPTER    X. 

They  entered  the  house  by  a  side- 
door.  The  long  Thanksgiving  dinner 
was  over :  through  the  basement-win- 
dows they  caught  glimpses  of  loaded 
tables  spread  for  the  farm  and  house 


servants,  for  it  was  the  old  lady's  wliira 
that  all  her  friends  and  laborers  on  these 
high  holidays  should  eat  under  her  roof, 
and  of  the  same  food  :  the  best  she  could 
give  them. 

Commg  in  from  the  solitude  and  dark- 
ness without,  they  plunged  at  once  into 
an  excess  of  light  and  warmth  almost 
offensive.  Lizzy  hurried  through  the 
narrow,  darkest  halls  to  her  own  room, 
Dallas  following  her  slowly.  Each  open 
door  he  passed  framed  a  glowing  pic- 
ture :  the  deserted  dining-room,  gaudy 
with  china,  broken  fruit  and  dripping 
wax-lights  ;  the  dim,  quiet  library  ;  some 
young  girls  dancing  in  the  great  hall  ; 
sad  pictures,  strange  and  unfamiliar  to 
him.  How  strange,  or  burdened  with 
wliat  significance  of  his  loss,  Lizzy,  in 
her  haste,  did  not  consider,  until,  with 
her  hand  on  the  lock  of  her  own  door, 
she  turned  and  looked  at  the  pale  face 
of  the  tall  man  who  waited  behind  her 
with  his  bundle  under  his  arm.  She 
drew  him  in,  and  tried  in  her  tacdess 
way  to  show  how  awful  was  the  pity  in 
her  heart  for  him. 

''  I  should  not  have  brought  you  I-.ere. 
I  did  not  think  how  you  liad  lost  all 
these  things." 

"  No  matter.      It  will  come  right." 

But  she  persisted  :  "  I  did  not  think 
what  it  would  cost  you  to  find  your 
father's  house  what  it  is,  and  you  a  con- 
vict.     You  have  had  hard  luclc,  Dallas.'' 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  luck.  It 
is  something  that  fights  against  us.  Let 
me  sell  my  pictures  now  and  go." 

She  looked  at  the  homely,  powerful 
face,  at  the  coarse,  ill-fitting  clothes,  the 
brass  ticket  on  his  coat,  and  her  heart 
failed  her.  How  could  she  take  this 
man  down  to  them,  and  say,  •'  Here  is 
your  son."  Let  him  first  have  the 
chance  to  make  the  man  of  himself  he 
purposed. 

''  Give  me  the  pictures,"  she  said. 
"  Wait  for  me  here." 

In  a  few  moments  she  opened  the 
door  again.  "  You  must  go  down,  Dal- 
las. Madam  Galbraith  will  see  you  her- 
self" He  went  before  her  now,  grave 
and  silent.  It  seemed  to  her,  as  she 
followed    him  with  trembling,  cowardly 


64 


DALLAS  GALBRALTH. 


steps,  that  the  factitious,  gentlemanly  air 
which  he  had  sought  to  acquire  disap- 
peared from  him.  She  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  wide,  firm  mouth,  the  sane,  dark- 
blue  eyes  :  this  was  more  like  the  old 
Dallas  she  knew,  who  used  to  go  slinging 
through  the  woods,  his  basket  strapped 
upon  his  back. 

"  Where  am  I  to  go  ?"  pausing  in  the 
great  hall.  She  pointed  to  the  open 
door  of  the  library,  where  Madam  Gal- 
braith  stood  in  front  of  a  low,  clear  fire, 
and  then  followed  him,  far  behind. 

Dallas  went  in  alone.  He  stopped 
where  the  shadows  of  the  great  book- 
cases fell  heavily.  She  was  leaning  for- 
ward, her  knuckles  resting  on  the  gaudily- 
colored  canvas  that  was  spread  out  on 
the  table  before  her,  while  she  inspected 
it  contemptuously.  So  this  was  the  test 
to  which  her  charity  was  to  be  brought 
before  night — a  case  of  unappreciated 
genius  !  Some  needy  kinsman  of  her 
housekeeper's,  doubtless  :  she  had  not 
forgotten  her  insolence  of  the  morning. 

She  looked  up  at  the  tall  figure  in  the 
shadow,  contracting  her  eyes  to  see  him 
better.  But  it  did  not  matter  what  he 
was  :  she  had  nothing  for  him. 

"You  are  the  person  who  was  men- 
tioned to  me  as  in  need  of  assistance  ?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment. 

"  No.     I  asked  for  no  alms." 

A  thin,  quiet-looking  gentleman,  read- 
ing by  a  lamp  in  the  corner,  laid  down 
his  paper  suddenly  as  Dallas  spoke,  look- 
ing nervously  toward  him  ;  but,  after  a 
moment's  doubtful  pause,  adjusted  his 
spectacles  again  and  went  back  to  his 
Times. 

"No  alms,  eh?"  with  a  satirical  smile, 
passing  her  forefinger  over  the  picture. 
"Your  wings  are  stronger  than  those  of 
most  young  geniuses.  I  find  them  usu- 
ally quite  willing  to  accept  a  gratuity — 
for  the  sake  of  art." 

"  I  brought  you  my  pictures  to  sell. 
I  wish  to  take  nothing  from  you  unless 
I  give  you  your  money's  worth." 

Her  manner  instantly  changed.  She 
took  up  the  canvas,  scanning  it  for  a  few 
minutes  attentively  and  not  unkindly. 
«'  Then  our  business  is  speedily  closed. 
I  will  not  buy  the  pictures.     That  is  all  V 


"  That  is  all."  Dallas  did  not  move 
to  reclaim  them,  but  stood  absently  look- 
ing at  his  father's  mother,  forgetting  al- 
most to  breathe  in  his  intentness.  A 
curious  instinct  of  kinship  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  looking  at  her :  in  his  large- 
boned,  muscular  bod}-,  which  he  inherited 
from  her  ;  in  the  bluntness,  the  fierce 
temper,  the  quick,  generous  blood.  All 
shame  was  gone  from  him  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  out  of  his  old  Manasquan  life 
simple-hearted  Galbraith,  struggling  to 
be  a  man,  felt  himself  her  son,  and  alto- 
gether worthy  of  her. 

"You  hope  to  maintain  yourself  by 
your  art  ?" 

"Yes,"  as  if  waking  from  a  stupor, 
"  I  mean  to  do  it." 

"Then  I  will  be  plain  with  you,  young 
man.  Your  fate  may  depend  on  it,  and 
some  day  you  will  thank  m.e  for  my  can- 
dor." She  paused  abruptly,  as  the  sound 
of  some  one  singing  came  from  an  ad- 
joining room.  The  voice  was  a  singu- 
larly clear  and  natural  one,  the  song  mere 
snatches  of  some  old  ditty,  chanted  care- 
lessly, but  there  was  a  strange  flavor  of 
heat  and  pathos  in  it.  Madam  Galbraith 
held  up  her  hand  attentively.  When  it 
ceased,  she  said  to  her  husband  : 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  gift,  James.  It 
startles  me,  sometimes,  coming  from  so 
dull  a  child.  Though  Honora  is  afiection- 
ate — aflTectionate,"  waiting  with  a  pleased 
smile  for  the  approaching  footsteps.  Dal- 
las and  his  fate,  which  she  meant  to  con- 
trol, had  dropped  altogether  out  of  her 
mind.  They  heeded  him  no  more  than 
if  he  had  been  a  stock  standing  there. 

The  trifling  neglect  woke  him  with  a 
shock  to  his  real  self.  His  place  for  life 
was  fixed.  What  was  he,  with  the  prison- 
brand  on  him  and  through  him,  the  mea- 
gre education  which  he  had  acquired  out 
of  odd  books  in  the  hulks,  to  these  peo- 
ple ?  He  would  turn  his  back  on  them 
and  go  down  where  he  belonged.  The 
struggle  was  hopeless  :  one-third  of  his 
life  was  gone  in  it  already. 

The  door  opposite  to  him  opened  and 
the  singer  came  in,  and,  with  a  surprised 
look  at  finding  the  library  occupied,  went 
over  and  stood  by  her  uncle.  Only  a 
simple,  embarrassed  young  girl  ;  but  it 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


65 


seemed  fitting  to  Dallas  that  she  should 
have  sent  music  before  her  to  announce 
her  coming. 

Remember,  he  was  just  clear  from  the 
gangs  of  the  Albany  penitentiary,  made 
up  from  the  vilest  slums  of  New  York  : 
for  five  years  he  had  not  looked  on  a 
young,  pure  woman.  She  came  to  him, 
too,  at  a  moment  when  his  brain  was 
quickened  unnaturally  with  repressed 
thoughts  and  passions.  The  effect  was 
strange  and  lasting.  Whatever  famished, 
\  vague  longing  had  been  in  him  for  that 
part  of  God's  world  which  was  pure  and 
tender  and  holy,  woke  at  the  sight  of 
her  into  an  instant,  inexorable  pain  ;  cried 
out  within  him,  as  the  spirit  which  pos- 
sessed the  man  whose  dwelling  was 
among  the  tombs,  with  a  hunger  for 
which  he  had  no  words.  It  was  not 
woman  or  love  which  she  alone  sug- 
gested to  him.  She  seemed  to  be  the 
very  type  of  that  life  from  which  he  felt 
himself  this  moment  to  be  shut  out  by 
his  wrong  for  ever.  There  was  no  trifle 
which  he  did  not  note,  the  dim-lighted, 
scholastic  room  that  framed  her,  the  deli- 
cate, fleecy  dress,  the  face,  wonderful  in 
its  truth  and  childlike  content  with  life. 
By  some  subtle  instinct  he  understood 
at  a  glance  the  full  relation  between  her 
and  the  old  man  on  whose  shoulder  she 
rested.  He  too  was  fit  to  be  their 
fHend — one  of  a  company  from  which 
all  the  world  might  be  shut  out. 

With  that  thought  he  turned  his  back 
on  them  suddenly.  Madam  Galbraitli 
resumed  her  interrupted  lecture,  clearing 
her  throat : 

"  I  think  it  but  right  to  warn  you  of 
your  defeat,  young  man.  There  is  not 
a  single  evidence  of  power  in  these  pic- 
tures. They  are  weak  and  turgid  in  de- 
sign, and  faulty  in  execution.  You  have 
not  the  first  idea  of  the  art.  Give  up  the 
palette  and  go  to  breaking  stones  on  the 
turnpike,  and  it  will  serve  you  better  in 
the  end." 

"Hannah !"  remonstrated  a  mild  voice 
behind  her. 

She  placed  the  picture  before  him  by 
way  of  reply.      Mr.  Galbraith  held  it  to 
the  light  a  moment,  and  then  shook  his 
head  gravely. 
5 


"  I  fear  that  there  is  but  little  promise 
here,"  gently.  "  Stay.  What  coloring 
is  tliis  which  you  have  used,  sir  T' 

Dallas  hesitated.  "  I  worked  under 
difficulties.  The  colors  were  extracted 
from  bits  of  woolen  cloth,  earths  and 
vegetables  which  fell  in  my  way." 

Honora  stooped  over  her  uncle's  shoul- 
der eagerly.  Madam  Galbraith  took  one 
canvas  again  with  a  muttered  "Tut !  tut !" 
of  surprise,  inspected  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  towards  him,  rapping 
on  the  table.  "  That  pleases  me  !"  vig- 
orously. "  There's  no  genius  there,  but 
there's  wonderful  persistence.  I  think 
well  of  you,  sir  !  There  is  something 
better  than  genius  in  a  man  who  tries  to 
work  out  his  worldly  salvation  through 
slow  patience  like  that.  How  long  were 
you  in  making  those  poor  daubs  .■"' 

He  was  so  long  silent  that  they  all 
looked  at  him  curiously.  Madam  Gal- 
braith repeated  the  question  more  gently 
than  before. 

"  How  long  ?"  dully,  bringing  his 
thoughts  back  a  long  way.  "  I  think 
it  was  but  five  years  that  I  worked  at 
them.  But  I  was  a  boy  when  I  iDegan 
them  in  Manasquan — I  had  many  friends 
there.  Now —  I  think  much  of  my  life 
has  gone  down  into  those  poor  daubs, 
madam;  and  I  fear  it  never  will  conie 
to  me  again." 

"And  you  worked,  thinking  that  they 
were  well  done — that  you  had  genius — 
all  the  time  ?" 

"  Hannah  !" 

"I  mean  to  do  something  for  the  boy, 
James.  But  this  interests  me.  What 
plans  had  you,  if  you  succeeded  ?  What 
did  you  aim  at,  eh  V 

Now,  Dallas,  standing  among  them, 
ill-clothed,  the  jail-bird  consciousness 
heavy  on  every  limb  and  thought,  afraid 
to  speak  lest  some  vulgar  word  should 
mark  him,  was  conscious  that  his  secret 
aim  had  been  good  and  high.  It  was 
weak  and  worldly  to  assert  it — to  force 
himself  up  by  it  for  a  moment  to  their 
level.  But  it  was  natural ;  and  he  did  it, 
watching  eagerly  Madam  Galbraith's  eyes 
for  approval : 

"  I  have  had  great  difficulties,  in  mak- 
ing my  pictures — in  making  myself  any- 


66 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


tiling  I  would  be.  I  have  had  difficulties 
all  my  life.  When  I  painted  those  pic- 
tures there  were  people  about  me  whose 
chances  had  been  worse  than  mine.  I 
could  not  get  away  from  the  sight  of 
tliem.  They  were  before  me  night  and 
day.  I  could  not  speak  to  them  nor 
help  them." 

As  his  voice  grew  steadier  and  changed 
in  tone,  Mr.  Galbraith  laid  down  his  pa- 
per and  watched  him  keenly  ;  but  Dallas 
still  stood  in  the  shadow.  He  went  on 
slowly,  choosing  his  words  : 

"  One  thinks  many  thoughts  in  five 
years  of  silence.  It  is  hke  going  down 
into  the  grave  and  looking  back  on  one's 
Hfe.  I  hoped  to  succeed  in  painting. 
My  pictures  were  called  wonderful.  I 
still  think  there  is  something  in  them." 

"  Humph  !      Go  on." 

"  I  never  expect  to  marry  or  to  love, 
as  other  men  do.  There  are  reasons. 
But  one  must  have  a  plan  ;  and  mine 
was,  when  I  had  succeeded,  to  save  as 
many  as  I  could  from  the  difficulties  which 
I  had  known.  I  thought  of  taking  little 
children  out  of  the  slough  where  I  was, 
and  doing  what  I  could  for  them." 

But  he  was  rewarded  by  no  kindling 
in  the  old  woman's  eye.  She  was  in- 
tolerant of  anybody's  charity  but  her  own. 

"  Little  children,  eh  ?  And  you  a  hearty 
young  fellow !  Whining  about  the  sores 
on  society !  Go  to  work  ;  marry  a  healthy 
girl  in  your  own  class,  and  make  your  own 
children  what  they  should  be.  There's 
no  better  work  for  any  man  or  woman. 
Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You 
must  have  some  knowledge  of  chemistry 
to  have  worked  out  this  trumpery,"  point- 
ing to  the  pictures.  "  Go  to  my  woolen 
mills.  They  are  ten  miles  down  the  river. 
I'll  give  you  a  line  to  the  overseer.  They 
can  make  use  of  you  in  the  dyeing  de- 
partment. A  low  place  at  first,  probably. 
But  the  point  is  here :  Mr.  Galbraith 
and  I  employ  a  great  many  people,  di- 
rectly, and  in  concerns  in  which  we  are 
stockholders — mechanics,  sheep  and  cat- 
tle-raisers in  the  West,  and  professional 
men.  My  rule  is — for  he  leaves  the 
business  to  me — that  capacity  only  shall 
command  place.  I  will  keep  my  eye  on 
you,  and  I  am  much  mistaken  in  you  if 


you  do  not  rise  rapidly.  You  can  go 
now.  Honora,  have  you  done  studying 
those  pictures  .-'     Ehzabeth  !" 

Lizzy  came  from  the  door. 

"You  can  take  the  letter  to  the  young 
man.  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Vogt  to-mor- 
row." 

"  It  does  not  need,"  said  Dallas, 
quietly,  yet  speaking  directly  to  the  wo- 
man whom  he  knew  to  be  his  father's 
mother,  and  stopping  now  to  choose  no 
words.  "It  would  be  better  for  me  and 
for  you  if  you  touched  my  fate  no  far- 
ther. I  will  be  made  and  unmade  no 
more  as  a  pupjiet.  I  have  been  thrown 
to  and  fro  like  a  football  in  the  world  by 
one  chance  and  another  since  I  was  born. 
Surely  it  is  time  that  what  strength  and 
purpose  I  have  should  count  for  some- 
thing in  my  life." 

Madam  Galbraith  made  no  reply. 
Something  in  the  low,  passionate  tones 
seemed  to  stun  her  with  a  sudden  re- 
membrance. She  put  out  her  hand  to 
silence  him,  looked  at  her  husband  as 
for  protection,  not  against  Dallas,  but 
some  ghost  which  his  words  had  raised. 
He  went  on  in  the  same  repressed  voice : 

"  For  you,  some  day,  knowing  what  I 
am,  you  may  wish  you  had  dealt  with 
me  differently.  It  does  not  matter  now. 
You  were  unjust  to  me — unjust  to  my 
talent.  You  jeered  at  the  one  good  pur- 
pose I  had.  You  think  you  know  men. 
Yet  you  would  have  given  a  place  of 
trust  and  security  to  a  felon." 

Mr.  Galbraith  rose,  and,  putting  his 
wife  quietly  aside,  went  into  the  shadow 
where  Dallas  stood,  looking  at  him  stead- 
ily before  he  spoke.  He  did  a  strange 
thing,  too — took  the  man's  hand  in  his 
delicate  fingers,  and  held  it  a  moment, 
as  though  he  tested  something  by  that 
means. 

"  You  were  a  convict .'"' 

"  Yes." 

"  For  what  crime  ?" 

"  Forgery." 

Mr.  Galbraith  was  silent  a  moment 
before  the  next  question:  "Were  you 
guilty?" 

"No." 

"Why  do  you  suffer  the  man  to  palter 
with  you,  James.?"    demanded    Madam 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


67 


Galbraith.  sternly.  <'A  criminal  never 
before  has  crossed  my  threshold  with 
my  consent.  There  is  no  hope  for  a 
man  who  has  once  sinned,  in  my  judg- 
ment. Go  to  your  room,  Honora.  This 
is  no  place  for  you." 

Dallas  did  not  glance  at  the  girl.  "  I 
was  not  guilty,"  he  reiterated,  looking 
directly  into  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 

At  that,  Honora  stopped,  near  to  the 
door,  with  a  dreadful  pity  in  her  face, 
close  to  the  indistinct  figure  in  the  cor- 
ner, that  was  to  her,  so  far,  little  more 
than  a  voice  and  great  trouble,  such  as  she 
never  had  met  with  in  the  world  before. 

"You  are  blind  !"  cried  Lizzy,  passion- 
ately, going  up  to  Madam  Galbraith. 
"You  are  blind  and  cruel.  You  play 
with  the  soul  of  this  boy,  and  think  it 
is  sport.  But  it  is  your  own  heart  that 
wiU  suifer  in  the  end." 

Galbraith  laid  his  steady  hand  on  her 
arm  to  quiet  her. 

"  Blind  I  assuredly  was,"  said  Madam 
Galbraith,  calmly  looking  down  at  the 
pale  little  woman  before  her,  "not  to 
guess  at  the  character  of  the  man  from 
his  whining  philanthropy.  Why,  too, 
would  an  honest  man  stand  back  in  the 
dark  and  hide  his  face  in  that  manner? 
We  have  had  enough  of  this.  What 
does  the  man  matter  to  us  ?"  But  still 
she  hesitated ;  for  when  once  her  hands 
had  meddled  in  the  control  of  any  man's 
life,  for  good  or  ill,  it  chagrined  her  to 
let  it  go.  Mr.  Galbraith  walked  slowly 
to  and  fro,  near  to  his  grandson,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  head  sunk 
on  his  breast.  He  halted  when  Dallas 
spoke  to  him,  silent  and  watchful. 

"You  are  right  in  your  judgment," 
he  said,  still  looking  steadfastly  in  the 
old  man's  face,  which  seemed  strangely 
worn  and  gray.  "Luck,  as  the  world 
has  it,  has  gone  against  me,  so  far  as 
to  bring  me  in  guilty  as  a  thief.  So  that 
I  matter  nothing  to  you."  For  the  first 
time  his  eyes  went  wistfully  about  the 
room,  and  rested  on  Honora.  "  I  matter 
nothing  to  you  or  yours  V 

Something  in  the  man's  voice  held 
them  all  silent :  it  was  as  if  he  pleaded 
for  his  life  with  a  Judge  invisible  to 
them — beyond  and  above  them. 


He  turned  to  the  door  at  last.  "Let 
it  be  so.  The  prison  was  not  death,  as 
I  thought  it  would  be  when  I  went  into 
it.  There  are  other  lives,  thank  God. 
than  this  which  you  live.  But  I  wish 
that  one  among  you  had  beheved  in  me 
and  thought  me  an  honest  man." 

Honora,  standing  near  the  door,  came 
up  to  him  with  the  picture  in  her  hand. 
"I  beheve  in  you,"  she  said. 

"Honora!" 

But  Mr.  Galbraith  put  out  his  arm 
before  his  wife.  "Let  the  girl  alone," 
he  said,  sternly. 

She  did  not  hear  them :  she  trembled 
very  much,  though  not  with  fear,  and 
stood  silent  before  Dallas,  who  drew 
back  from  her. 

"I  never  knew  there  was  anything 
like — like  this  in  the  world  before," 
stretching  out  her  hands  toward  him. 
"1  can  do  nothing.  I  cannot  help  you. 
Only,  I  believe  that  every  word  you  have 
said  is  true,  if  you  care  to  know  that." 

Dallas  stood  erect.  He  thought  he 
had  answered  her,  but,  instead,  his  eyes 
only  devoured  her  face  with  a  meaning 
which  neither  he  nor  she  understood. 
She  laid  down  the  picture,  and  then,  as 
she  was  turning  away,  offered  him  her 
hand — a  rare  sign  of  equality  for  Honora 
to  make  to  man  or  woman.  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  "  I  think  I  am  fit  to 
take  your  hand,"  he  said,  gravely,  hold- 
ing the  pure,  warm  little  palm  firmly  in 
his  own. 

The  door  closed  behind  her.  "It  is 
time  this  matter  was  ended,"  said  Mad- 
am Galbraith,  savagely.  "There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

"Nothing  more."  He  took  up  the 
pictures  which  lay  rolled  on  a  chair,  and 
was  turning  away,  when  a  curtain  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  room  was  pushed 
aside,  and  a  clear  voice  cried:  "The 
Colonel  tells  me  you  have  been  enacting 
a  bit  of  a  tragedy.  You  talk  loudly. 
Had  you  really  a  dreadful  convict  here  ?" 
A  lady,  in  a  soft  brown  silk,  with  lace 
edging  it,  and  a  pearl  ring  on  her  hand, 
came  in  smiling,  and,  still  hidden  by  the 
sombre  shadows  of  the  nre-lighted  room, 
Dallas  Galbraith  faced  his  mother. 


PART     IV, 


CHAPTER   XI. 

MR.  GALBRAITH  came  before  his 
daughter-in-law  hastily.  "The 
■ — the  man  is  still  here  my  dear,"  mildly, 
motioning  her  back,  "  and  his  guilt  is  far 
from  certain — to  my  mind." 

He  turned  to  brighten  the  flickering 
lamp,  but  succeeded  in  extinguishing  it 
instead,  his  fingers  being,  as  usual,  nerv- 
ous and  incapable. 

But  before  his  warning,  Mrs.  Duffield's 
quick,  comprehensive  glance  had  de- 
tected the  dark  figure  in  the  background, 
aaid  she  stopped,  hesitating  and  shocked. 
To  find  that  she  had  been,  unconsciously, 
at  once  both  rude  and  cruel,  demeaned 
her,  and  wrung  her  heart  with  a  real 
pain.  She  had  seen  the  man  draw  back 
at  her  words  and  lean  for  support  on  the 
door-jamb.  Poor  wretch  !  Angry  tears 
at  herself  rushed  into  her  eyes.  She 
made  no  word  of  apology  to  him,  how- 
ever, but  turned  with  quick  tact  to  Mr. 
Galbr-aith. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  not  guilty, 
sir.  You  would  know  an  innocent  man 
by  instinct.      While  I — " 

Madam  Galbraith  turned  on  her. 
"What  ought  my  son's  wife  to  know  of 
crime  or  criminals  ?  Young  women 
chatter  of  vices  now-a-days  with  which, 


in  my  time,  they  would  have  been 
counted  besmirched  had  they  but  known 
the  names.      Even  Honora — bah  !" 

Her  son's  wife  Hfted  her  sweet  face 
and  bright  eyes  gently  toward  her,  her 
hands  folded  with  a  most  nun-like  sim- 
plicity :  she  paused  a  full  moment  before 
replying,  taking  counsel  with  herself, 
how,  while  she  made  amends  to  the  poor 
outcast  in  the  corner,  she  could  send  a 
decisive  lance  against  the  old  griffin  wlio 
was  bent  on  riding  her  down. 

Now  Lizzy  had  no  thought  for  any  of 
them  but  Dallas.  In  this  pause  she 
tried  to  draw  him  out  and  away.  That 
first  sight  of  his  mother,  before  the  light 
grew  dim,  had  shaken  the  slow,  affection- 
ate fellow  in  a  manner  which  it  had 
frightened  her  to  see.  She  compre- 
hended now  what  secret  had  Iain  hidden 
in  the  boy's  breast  during  the  years  in 
which  he  had  been  a  vagabond  for  this 
woman's  sake:  she  began  to  see,  look- 
ing into  his  pale  face,  turned  toward 
Mrs.  Duffield,  what  pith  and  strength 
there  was  in  him  beyond  other  men.  In 
another  moment  the  hungry  cry,  re- 
pressed for  a  life-time,  would  break  forth, 
and  he  would  throw  himself  at  the  feet 
of  this  shallow,  selfish  fool.  Lizzy  caught 
his  wrist  with  a  grip  as  strong  as  iron 
— or  common  sense. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


69 


«  Dallas  !  come  away  from  them,"  she 
■whispered. 

He  shook  her  off  gently.  "  It  is  my 
mother!"  his  lips  hardly  moving:  stand- 
ing still,  listening  breathlessly  as  the 
sweet,  decided  voice  of  the  little  woman 
was  heard  again,  an  expression  of  infi- 
nite pathos  and  tenderness  softening  the 
stern  features,  as  if  the  childhood  and 
boyhood  lost  for  her  sake  had  returned  to 
the  uncouth,  hardly-used  man  at  her  first 
familiar  tone.  With  the  stupidity  of  a 
man  he  saw  no  under-meaning  in  her 
words. 

"What  do  I  know  of  criminals  ?"  she 
said.  '-Why,  I  have  felt  what  the  temp- 
tations are — down  there.  Where  you 
never  have  gone,  dear  Madam  Galbraith. 
And  I  have  ver}'  little  faith  in  the  law's 
justice,  either.  Prove  a  man  to  be  poor 
and  tempted,  and  half  the  jurors  in  any 
court  count  him  guilty.  I  have  been 
poor  myself,  you  know.  I  am  familiar 
with  the  landmarks  of  that  country," 
with  a  piquant  little  nod  and  triumphant 
flash  of  the  gray  eyes  as  the  indignant 
blood  rushed  into  the  old  lady's  face. 

"  It  was  my  fault  that  my  son's  wife 
should  have  such  knowledge  to  boast 
of,"  in  a  humiliated  voice. 

« Oh,  indeed,  no!  You  are  generosity 
itself.  But  a  little  hard  on  ill-doers — 
ah  ?  as  a  just  woman  should  be.  And 
we  were  sadly  in  the  wrong — viea 
culpa  f  beating  her  soft  bosom  with  a 
smile.  "  But  I  learned  in  that  way  to 
sympathize  with  this  poor  fellow  here." 

There  was  an  embarrassed  silence. 
The  graceful  little  lady  standing  on  the 
hearth-rug  was  left  master  of  the  field. 
The  ver}-'  fire-light  seemed  cognizant  of 
her  prettiness.  of  the  completeness  of  her 
dress  and  delicacy  and  Christian  com- 
passion :  touched  the  flush  on  her  cheek 
and  the  thoughtful  bent  head  with  bright 
admiring  gleams.  What  with  the  tears 
in  her  innocent  eyes,  her  well-fitting 
gown,  and  the  integrity  of  her  position. 
Madam  Galbraith  and  Lizzy  appeared 
old  and  dour  and  misplaced  beside  her, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  the  fastidious  old 
gentleman  pacing  nervously  to  and  fro. 
As  for  her  son,  the  poor  convict  in  the 
corner,  the  very  lightest  breath  she  drew, 


or  motion  of  her  white  hand,  seemed,  in 
the  fervor  of  his  admiration,  a  thing  dis- 
tinct and  new,  and  touching  him  as  nn 
miracle  would. 

Presently  she  turned  her  eyes  on  him, 
full  of  womanish  tears  ;  for  in  truth  she 
was  sore  to  think  of  what  she  had  done, 
and  would  have  gladly  made  amends. 
When  their  eyes  met  he  began  to  tremble, 
let  fall  the  roll  of  canvas  which  he  held, 
and  took  an  uncertain  step  toward  her. 
He  put  up  both  hands  to  tear  off  the 
cap  which  covered  his  shaven  head. 

"Mother.  It  is  I — Dallas  !"  he  wouM 
have  cried,  but  the  words  died  in  his 
parched  mouth. 

She  watched  him  with  alarm,  the  tears 
suddenly  dr\-ing  up  in  her  eyes.  "  Does 
your  friend  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?"  she 
asked  of  Elizabeth,  with  a  certain  sharp- 
ness in  her  tone. 

Lizzy  ^ame  in  front  of  Dallas,  putting 
him  back.  "  He  does  wish  to  speak  to 
you,  Mrs.  Duffield.  but  not  now.  Not 
before  strangers.  He  fancied,  from  your 
kind  words,  that  you  would  understand 
and  feel  for  him.  But  it  will  be  better 
you  should  see  him  alone." 

"  Oh,  assuredly  !  Take  him  away,  I 
beg  of  you.  Another  time,  pray  !  An- 
other time  !     Take  him  away." 

Dallas  stood  irresolute  a  moment, 
looking  at  her :  then,  bowing  awkwardly, 
he  turned  and  went  into  the  hall. 

"  I  think  you  were  right,"  stopping 
and  holding  Lizzy  by  the  arm.  "  I  could 
not  speak  to  her  there  before  strangers, 
you  know.  And  I  meant  to  be  some- 
thing which  she  would  be  proud  to  own 
when  I  came —  Not  that  it  would  mat- 
ter to  her." 

Lizzy  did  not  answer :  she  only  held 
him  by  the  sleeve  quiet  a  moment.  The 
door  was  open,  and  Mrs.  Duffield's  mu- 
sical voice  came  out  energetically.  "  I 
was  so  shocked  at  what  I  had  done  !  It 
makes  me  feel  like  a  coward  to  strike 
anything  beneath  me.  One  might  as 
well  be  harsh  to  a  servant,  or  crush  a 
poor  toad  underone's  feet  in  the  garden — 
things  that  cannot  retaliate,  you  know, 
Madam  Galbraith." 

"  You  are  a  good  little  soul,  I  do  b«- 
lieve,  my  dear,"  good-humoredly. 


70 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"  No,  I  don't  think  I  am,"  coloring. 
« That  poor  wretch  was  going  to  make 
a  scene.  I  detest  scenes.  That  is  the 
difficulty  with  that  sort  of  people  :  they 
never  understand  the  gulf  between  us, 
and  at  the  least  encouragement  they 
press  on  you  with  their  disgusting  ail- 
ments of  body  and  mind.  It  is  so  dread- 
fully morbid,  that  sort  of  thing.  I'm  not 
at  all  morbid." 

"  Do  you  hear  her,  Dallas  ?  Do  you 
hear  her  ?" 

But  he  was  carefully  rolling  up  his 
canvas  with  the  same  quiet,  wistful  smile. 
"  She  does  not  know  I  am  her  son,  you 
see,  Lizzy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  what 
she  says  is  very  true,  too.  She  had 
great  penetration — my  mother,"  as  they 
went  down  the  hall  together.  "  I  never 
knew  a  woman  with  so  clear  a  judgment 
and  such  tender  sympathies.  Her  very 
voice  and  smile  are  full  of  mercy.  Did 
you  observe  ?" 

Lizzy  only  rephed  quietly  that  a  sweet 
voice  and  smile  had  great  weight  with 
most  men,  thinking  that  Dallas  was  but 
like  the  others  :  a  few  pink  and  white 
tinges  in  the  face  and  a  trick  of  ready 
tears  would  outweigh  the  service  of  a 
homely  woman's  whole  lifetime.  Lizzy 
sighed,  and  choked  the  sigh. 

They  passed  through  the  halls  again, 
she  following  a  long  way  behind.  What 
were  they  to  do  ?  What  were  they  to  do  ? 
Her  plans  and  sacrifices,  her  prayers  for 
him  for  years,  had  ended  now  in  nothing. 
This  big,  clumsy  fellow  walking  before 
her,  who  had  grown  so  dear  to  her 
through  her  pity  for  his  wrong,  had  been 
left  by  God  to  be  thrust  out  into  the 
world  to-night,  to  make  what  he  chose 
therein  of  his  undisciplined  body  and 
ill-taught  brain,  bringing  nothing  out  of 
his  past  life  but  the  cheap  clothes,  the 
convict's  badge  and  the  rejected  pictures 
which  he  carried  under  his  arm.  She 
thought  of  Ishmael,  thrust  out  from  his 
inheritance  into  the  desert.  Dallas 
was  as  helpless,  as  ill  able  to  fight 
his  way. 

Had  God  never  heard  her,  then  ? 
Did  he  make  souls  to  suffer  them  thus 
to  drift  about  and  rot  on  every  changing 
tide  like  bits  of  unclean  weed  ?     Was 


this  the  way  in  which  Christ  kept  watch 
over  the  wronged  and  weak  ? 

Her  face  grew  more  colorless.  As 
she  followed  him,  the  more  immediate 
trouble  seized  her :  What  could  she  do 
with  him  now  ?  What  road  were  they 
to  take  together?  Dallas  solved  the 
riddle,  passing  quietly  out  of  the  side- 
door  and  turning  to  the  mountain-path, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  the  reins  of  whose 
life  were  always  well  held  in  his  own 
hand.     He  stopped  at  the  little  gate. 

"  Good-bye,  Lizzy." 

"  I  will  walk  with  you  to  the  stile, 
Dallas."  She  took  the  roll  of  canvas 
from  him  as  they  went  side  by  side,  and 
held  it.  She  would  like  to  have  torn  it 
strip  by  strip  and  thrown  it  in  the  muddy 
stream :  she  could  have  vented  on  the 
inanimate  thing  all  the  bitterness  of  her 
disappointment  in  men  and  God,  who 
were  alike  Wind.  She  had  counted  so 
long  on  these  pictures,  and  the  gift  of 
which  they  were  the  sign.  They  were 
to  have  been  the  magic  key  which  would 
have  restored  him  to  family  and  fortune — 
assured  him  splendid  triumphs  over  his 
enemies.  But  they  had  been  worth  noth- 
ing. God  had  not  been  just  enough  to 
give  even  genius  to  Dallas  Galbraith. 

But  she  carried  the  roll  quietly  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  gave  it  back  to 
him  without  a  word.  The  stile  at  which 
they  stopped  opened  out  into  the  fields 
on  the  valley  side :  behind  them  the 
house  rose  against  the  mountain  back- 
ground, an  irregular,  imposing  mass  of 
shadow  in  the  pale  November  moonlight, 
its  numberless  deep-set,  red-burning  win- 
dows giving  a  human  life  to  the  night 
Occasional  echoes  of  laughter  or  broken 
snatches  of  music  came  out  to  them 
where  they  stood. 

Mountains  and  homestead  and  music 
all  symbolized  in  some  way,  and  made 
more  real  to  her,  the  power  and  life  of 
ease  and  culture  which  he  had  lost. 

"Why  need  you  stop  and  look  at  it?" 
she  said,  with  repressed  vehemence. 
"  It's  too  late  now.  You  might  have 
been  master  here  if  you  had  kept  silence 
and  not  dragged  out  your  past  life  before 
them  all.  If  you  had  but  luck,  Dallas  ! 
If  there  were  any  way  yet  for  you  to 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


71 


become  famous,  to  make  a  fortune  and 
triumph  over  them  !  My  God,  if  you 
could  triumph  over  them !"  She  turned 
her  pale,  in-itable  face  to\vard  him,  stop- 
ping astonished  to  see  the  quiet  cheer- 
fulness with  which  he  scrutinized  tlie  old 
building. 

"A  fortune?  Fame?  I  had  not 
thought  of  that,"  slowly. 

"  That  is  because  you  know  nothing 
of  life,"  with  impatient  acrimony.  "/ 
know  it !  What  can  you  do  without 
them  ?  Luck's  against  you,  Dallas  ! 
As  for  me,  I  put  my  shoulder  to  the 
wheel  to  no  purpose.  You  threw  your 
fortune  away  to-night,  and  you're  here,  a 
full-grown  man,  with  neither  skill  nor 
money.  It  seems  to  me,  because  of 
your  honesty,  your  life  is  to  count  for 
nothing — no  more  than  the  thousands 
of  dull,  worthless  ones  that  crowd  the 
world.     And  that  is  God's  justice  !" 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  not  re- 
plying for  a  moment  or  two :  "  No  doubt 
you  are  right.  I  scarcely  know  what 
pushes  men  up.  But  money  or  notori- 
ety seemed  very  far  outside  of  the  course 
I  planned  for  myself  It  may  have  been 
the  five  years  of  enforced  silence  that 
makes  me  see  the  world  according  to 
my  own  scheme,  and  leave  out  matters 
so  essential." 

But  Lizzy  had  time  while  he  said  this 
to  fall  into  a  passion  of  remorse  :  "At 
any  rate,  you  were  honest.  I  had  no 
right  to  taunt  you  with  the  injustice  of 
the  world  to  you.  If  you  have  no  chance 
for  success,  it  was  hardly  my  place  to 
teU  you  of  it.  I  am  as  brutal  as  the 
others  in  there,"  nodding  toward  the 
house. 

"You  never  could  be  unfriendly,  what- 
ever you  said,  Lizzy,"  he  said,  kindly. 
But  he  made  no  answer  about  his  chance 
in  the  world. 

"  I  am  not  myself  to-night.  It  was  a 
bitter  disappointment.  I  never  looked 
at  yon  house,"  facing  the  long  line  of 
building,  "  that  I  did  not  fancy  you  as 
the  master  of  it.  I  thought  there  was 
One  who  would  see  that  justice  should 
be  done — that  you  should  have  your 
fortune  and  place." 

He  watched  her,  as  she  spoke,  closely 


and  gravely :  it  had  become  a  habit  of 
the  man,  possibly  because,  after  so 
many  years  of  compelled  silence,  he 
could  not  follow  tlie  differing  voices 
readily.  He  nodded,  comprehending 
her,  with  a  slow,  half-amused  smile. 

"  I've  had  httle  else  to  think  of  than 
the  recompense  coming  to  you.  I 
thought  you  would  marry  Honora — " 
She  checked  herself  abruptly,  with  an 
alarmed  glance  at  his  face,  but  he  had 
turned  to  look  down  the  road,  buttoning 
his  coat  for  departure,  and,  though  she 
waited  for  him  to  speak,  he  said  nothing. 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment  or 
two.  She  broke  it  at  last:  "You  say 
neither  money  nor  fame  is  the  end  of 
your  schemes,  Dallas.  What  is  the  end  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  make  of  your 
life  ?"  adding,  when  he  did  not  reply,  in 
a  hesitating,  apologetic  voice,  "  I  am 
more  practical  than  you,  I  thought  I 
could  advise  you." 

"  '  Practical,'  Lizzy  ?"  the  dark-blue 
eyes  beginning  to  sparkle,  and  giving  a 
quick,  real  old  Dallas  laugh.  "Why 
you  give  me  fortunes  Hke  a  fairy  god- 
mother.    Practical !" 

But,  with  a  woman's  keen  instinct, 
she  felt  that  her  question  had  been 
evaded,  and  that  the  steady,  kind  regard 
which,  after  he  spoke,  he  held  fixed  on 
her  face,  was  the  sign  of  an  impalpable 
barrier  which  shut  her  out  from  him. 

"  First,  I  am  going  somewhere  to 
sleep  and  eat.  I  feel  the  need  of  it. 
There  is  a  little  tavern  back  in  the  gap 
yonder,  which  I  saw  yesterday :  I  will 
stay  there  for  the  present.  The  Indian 
Queen,  they  call  it.  I  can  find  work 
among  the  farmers." 

After  ?  But  she  did  not  dare  to  ask. 
His  very  candor  with  regard  to  his  present 
work  and  lodging  drew  the  barring  line 
about  him.  As  to  the  use  he  would  try 
to  make  of  this  life  which  had  been  so 
bungled  and  misplaced,  it  was  a  matter, 
she  saw,  in  which  God  alone  could 
meddle  with  him  in  future. 

"  I  think  it  is  more  to  the  purpose," 
he  continued,  "to  decide  upon  your 
course,  Lizzy.  It  will  not  be  right  for 
you  to  remain  here :  my  crime  and  dis- 
grace will  be  visited  on  you." 


72 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"  It  does  not  matter.  My  work  is 
done  here.  I  have  saved  some  money. 
It  does  not  matter  to  me  now  where  I 
go." 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  dreary 
voice  or  face. 

"  Who  is  Honora  ?"  abruptly. 

"You  saw  her:  she  is  Madam  Gal- 
braith's  heir.  She  offered  her  hand  to 
you.  She  is  a  charitable  little  soul. 
They  have  kept  her  in  that  house  yonder 
as  ignorant  of  the  sin  of  the  outside 
world  as  a  babe  in  its  cradle.  She  and 
her  uncle  will  always  remember  that 
hand-shake,  as  if  she  had  been  an  angel 
who  stooped  down  from  heaven  with 
water  to  cool  Dives'  parched  tongue." 

Dallas  was  silent  a  moment.  "  The 
diiference  between  us  is  great,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

"  Yes  ;  my  plan  for  you  there  is  at  an 
end." 

He  did  not  reply.  They  had  been 
standing  on  the  same  side  of  the  stile 
until  now  :  he  put  his  hand  on  it  to  pass 
through,  but  stopped  with  a  startled 
glance  about  him. 

"What  is  it,  Galbraith  ?" 

"A  man's  steps,  I  fancied." 

"  It  is  probable :  the  workmen  are 
closing  the  stables  about  this  time,  and 
passing  in  every  direction  home  through 
the  fields." 

But  he  still  held  his  head  bent 
anxiously,  with  his  hand  behind  his  ear 
to  listen,  and  it  was  not  until  some  mo- 
ments after  that  he  looked  up  with  a 
sudden  breath  of  rehef 

"  My  hearing  plays  me  strange  tricks 
sometimes.  When  will  I  see  you  again, 
Lizzy  ?" 

'<  I  will  come  to-morrow  to  that  house 
where  you  are  going.  I  know  the  wo- 
man well :  I  can  board  there  for  a  little 
while  before  I  leave  this  part  of  the 
country:  that  is,"  hesitating,  "if  you 
would  like  to  have  me  near  you,  Dallas  ?" 

"  I  have  no  friend  but  you.  You  are 
going  back  to — the  old  place  V 

"  No." 

He  looked  at  her  downcast  face  keen- 
ly, wonder  and  doubt  and  a  new  light 
coming  slowly  into  his  own,  as  for  the 
first  time  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  came 


to  him — that  the  girl,  out  of  sheer  sense 
of  justice,  had  given  up  all  she  had  for 
him,  and  left  herself  bankrupt. 

It  was  hke  a  wide  window  opened 
into  a  dark,  unwholesome  house,  this 
sudden  sight  of  the  woman's  loyalty  to 
him,  unflinching  through  his  low,  wretch- 
ed luck.  He  realized  even  in  that  mo- 
ment that  the  world  would  be  different 
and  sweeter  to  him  for  it  every  day  of 
his  life  thereafter.  But  he  only  said, 
simply,  "You've  been  a  good  friend  to 
me,  Lizzy,"  holding  her  hand  a  moment 
afterward. 

Downright,  outwardly  stupid  men  like 
Galbraith  have  so  little  of  that  small  coin 
of  affection  or  gratitude,  those  words  and 
looks,  for  which  even  women  as  sensible 
as  Lizzy  are  willing  to  sacrifice  their  lives 
and  think  themselves  well  paid.  As  it 
was,  she  was  wonderfully  comforted  by 
even  this  touch  of  appreciation. 

"  I  began  to  think  him  insensible  as 
this  log,"  she  thought,  as  she  watched 
him  going  down  the  mountain-path.  "  I 
thought  he  was  too  dull  to  care  for  what 
he  had  lost — or — or  anything  else.  But 
I  wronged  the  poor  boy.  Dear  old  Dal- 
las !"  It  was  so  good  to  have  something 
come  into  her  lonely  life,  to  be  cared  for 
and  watched  over. 

The  stile  on  which  she  leaned  was 
distant  one  or  two  fields  from  the  house. 
The  infrequent  noises  had  died  away, 
and  the  stubbled.  saffron-colored  slopes, 
with  their  dark,  crossing  lines  of  hedges, 
stretched  in  drowsy  quiet  to  the  sluggish 
creek,  glittering  blackly  in  the  moonlight 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  to  the  far, 
dun-blue  boundary  of  mountains.  Only 
an  occasional  whoop  of  an  owl  or  the 
trampling  of  horses  in  the  stables  broke 
the  silence  of  the  night  to  her  ear  ;  but 
she  saw  Dallas  stop  suddenly  in  the 
alarmed,  watchful  attitude  of  a  moment 
ago.  He  stood  motionless,  stooping 
close  to  the  ground — a  trick,  when  listen- 
ing, which  he  had  learned  in  his  old 
woodcraft.  Lizzy  strained  her  ears,  but 
she  heard  nothing.  After  a  moment's 
waiting,  Galbraith  stood  erect,  glanced 
keenly  at  the  low  patches  of  brushwood 
on  either  side,  and  then,  turning,  came 
swiftly  back  toward  her. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


73 


"  What  do  you  hear,  Galbraith  ?" 

"  Nothing,  it  is  most  Hkely.  Come, 
I  will  take  you  back  to  the  house.  It 
would  seem  but  the  shadow  of  a  sound 
to  you,  perhaps,  but  I  fancied  danger  in 
it" 

She  went  with  him,  slowly  at  first, 
but  with  his  strong  hand  on  her  elbow 
he  hurried  her  along.  "  Your  nerves  de- 
ceive you,  Dallas.  I  often  hear  strange 
sounds  and  see  impossible  things  after  I 
have  been  worried  and  in  trouble." 

"  Why,  I  thought  your  nerves  were 
steel,  little  woman  .?"  laughing. 

"  Or  it  might  have  been  the  throb  of 
the  creek-mill,"  she  argued,  perplexed 
and  out  of  breath.  "  I  have  heard  it  up 
here  on  a  clear  night.  What  kind  of 
sound  was  it  ?" 

"It  might  have  been  the  mill,"  quick- 
ening his  step. 

"  What  danger  did  you  apprehend  ?" 
anxiously. 

"  None  which  could  not  be  met.  I  am 
a  man  now,"  under  his  breath.  "Here 
you  are  at  home  again,"  opening  the  side- 
door.  "  Do  not  come  to  me  until  I  send 
for  you.      Good-night,  Lizzy." 

His  grasp  of  her  hand  was  heartier : 
there  was  a  prompt  energy  in  his  laugh 
and  the  ring  of  his  voice,  a  decision  in 
every  movement,  which  she  had  not  seen 
since  his  return.  It  needs  danger  to 
bring  a  man  wholly  into  life,  after  all, 
just  as  pain  does  a  woman.  Lizzy,  who 
had  drawn  much  shrewdness,  knowledge 
of  men  and  of  business,  and  capability  into 
herself  out  of  these  years  of  dull  endur- 
ance, which  had  nigh  smothered  out  the 
h'ght  in  Dallas  Galbraith,  crept  up  to  her 
room,  shivering  in  a  cold  perspiration  at 
tliis  hint  of  outward  danger  ;  got  down 
cm  her  knees  by  the  window,  watching 
the  tall  figure  going  quietly  down  the 
path  again,  the  vast,  dusky  landscape 
that  yawned  about  him,  the  mountains 
which  suddenly  grew  spectral  and  threat- 
ening to  her,  uncertain  from  which  quar- 
ter the  sudden  peril  would  come,  and 
leaving  him  to  face  it  alone.  She  saw 
him  halt  on  the  foot-bridge  where  she 
had  met  him  that  evening,  and  pace  to 
and  fro  with  slow  and  grave  composure, 
as  though  it  were  a  friend,  and  not  an 


enemy,  he  waited  to  meet  ;  with  this 
difference,  however,  that  he  untied  his 
cap  and  took  it  off,  showing  boldly  to 
his  foe  the  face  which  he  would  have 
hid  from  her. 

The  manner  of  the  boy  convinced  her 
that  there  was  an  absolute,  tangible  dan- 
ger at  hand:  she  sheltered  her  keen  eyes, 
scanning  the  fields  and  crooked  roads 
leading  to  the  house  ;  but  not  a  living 
object  appeared  on  the  wide,  solitary 
space.  Once  she  fancied  she  saw  a 
shadow  pass  and  repass  behind  a  high- 
set  Osage-orange  hedge  below  the  bridge, 
stealthy  and  watchful  as  a  panther  ;  but 
the  next  moment  it  so  blended  and  was 
lost  with  the  flickering  shadows  of  the 
trees  about  it  that  she  knew  she  had 
been  mistaken.  Which  mischance  of 
poor  Dallas'  past  hfe  or  ill  luck  of  the 
future  had  taken  shape  now  to  harm 
him .''  Why  could  he  not  be  left  to  plod 
along  like  all  the  rest  of  the  common- 
place world?  thought  Lizzy,  impatiently, 
forgetting  that  about  the  meanest  of  us 
the  panther-like  dangers  wait  in  the  very 
trees  and  houses,  in  the  souls  of  passers- 
by,  only  that  God's  arm  and  sunshine 
are  between  us  ;  and  we  chatter  as  we 
go  of  sunshine  and  houses,  and  nod  to 
the  passers-by,  and  see  nothing  of  God 
or  the  death  behind.  So  Dallas,  v/aiting 
until  late  in  the  night  for  this  crisis  of 
his  life  which  he  fancied  was  upon  him, 
began  to  think,  at  last,  the  valley  held 
nothing  more  dangerous  for  him  than 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  the  throb, 
perhaps,  of  the  mill-engine. 

He  went  off  at  a  steady  pace  toward 
the  gap  where  the  httle  Indian  Queen  Inn 
lay,  to  get  his  supper  and  a  bed.  Any 
man  meeting  the  sturdy  young  fellow 
would  have  found  something  in  his  look 
and  bearing,  stamped  there  during  the 
last  five  years,  which  said  that  he  was, 
more  than  other  men,  master  of  himself — 
that  wherever  his  future  road  might  lead, 
it  would  be  one  of  his  own  choosing. 

But  behind  the  hedge  a  pompous, 
well-dressed  man  sat,  stroking  his  red 
cheeks  and  black  beard,  waiting  for  him 
to  go  ;  and  in  the  library  a  quiet  old 
man  was  carefully  writing  letters  ;  and, 
in  her  chamber,  Honora  sat  up  in  bed, 


74 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


shivering  in  her  night-gown,  reading  Jay's 
Evening  Prayers  to  put  some  rebellious 
thoughts  out  of  her  head  ;  and  they  all  had 
his  future  life  in  their  hands,  moulding, 
moulding,  moulding  it,  and  knowing  no 
more  what  they  did  than  the  ebatichoir  in 
the  hands  of  the  sculptor,  shaping  a  thing 
which  will  curse  or  bless  the  world. 

There  was  a  holly-tree  which  Dallas 
had  once  planted  by  his  old  shanty 
in  Manasquan,  and  which  was  putting 
out  its  slow,  prickly  leaves,  sturdily  "de- 
termined to  hve,"  people  said,  passing 
by.  Yet,  after  all,  the  sunshine  came 
from  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  world 
to  warm  it,  and  the  nor'easters  from  be- 
yond the  sea  tugged  to  tear  it  from  the 
roots,  and  the  worms  crept  to  its  heart, 
aiad  the  slow  juices  of  the  soil,  distilling 
there  since  the  world  was  first  made,  en- 
tered into  its  sap,  and  it  lay  in  the  work 
of  one  and  all  of  them  to  make  it  a  heap 
of  rotten-wood  manure  or  a  tree. 

Yet,  when  the  end  came,  it  would  be 
seen  that  they  had  but  done  as  they 
were  bidden. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

With  quick  walking  Dallas  could  have 
reached  the  Indian  Queen  before  mid- 
night. But  he  ached  in  every  joint. 
He  had  gone  directly  from  the  Albany 
prison  to  the  cars,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  the  weight  of  all  his  years  of  con- 
finement were  still  upon  his  limbs,  drag- 
ging him  down.  He  lagged  more  and 
more,  until  he  came  to  a  great  wood  of 
oaks  and  nut-trees.  There  was  no  more 
walking  that  night  for  Dallas  Galbraith. 
He  was  at  home  now.  He  sHd  his  feet 
along  through  the  dry  leaves  until  they 
were  up  to  his  knees.  It  was  so  long 
since  he  had  heard  that  confidential, 
crisp  crackle  !  He  took  off  his  cap  to 
feel  the  wind  on  his  forehead,  sniffed 
the  air  slowly,  recognizing  one  familiar 
wood-scent  and  then  another  :  then  the 
cap  was  thrown  on  the  ground  and  the 
canvas  roll  thrust  into  the  hole  of  a 
hollow  tree,  and  he  began  to  go  about, 
his  eyes  brightening,  his  ears  set,  from 
tree  to  tree,  from  the  muddy  bank  of  the 


creek  into  the  brushwood,  to  and  fro, 
peering,  smelling,  tasting.  Just  as  a 
man  would  come  back  after  long  aosence 
to  the  house  where  he  was  born,  and 
hurry  nervously  back  and  forth  to  find  tire 
old  landmarks  again,  and  the  changes 
which  had  of  late  crept  in.  Here  m 
this  oak  was  a  woodpecker's  nest  bur- 
rowed through  the  fungus  :  he  detected 
it  yards  off  by  the  faint,  vile  smell,  and, 
though  the  moonlight  was  clouded,  Ik 
found  two  mole-keeps  under  paw-paw 
bushes,  and  about  an  ash  bough,  like  a 
ring,  the  varnished  nest  of  the  orange- 
and-purple  moth.  The  half-dried  leaves 
hang  late  on  the  trees  of  this  wood,  as 
it  lies  low  in  a  cove  of  the  mountains. 
Galbraith  went  from  one  old  forest  mon- 
arch to  the  other,  his  hands  clasped  over 
his  head  in  his  old,  bopsh  habit,  putting 
his  ear  to  their  trunks  to  discover  if  1-te 
could  now,  as  he  once  did,  name  the  tree 
by  the  rustle  of  its  leaves,  smiling  quietly 
when  he  found  he  had  not  yet  forgotten 
their  language.  It  seemed  to  him  more 
natural  than  any  other. 

After  a  while,  as  its  naturalness  grew 
on  him  and  its  voices  became  more  and 
more  those  which  he  used  to  know,  he 
leaned  against  a  gray  old  oak,  quite  still, 
the  large-featured,  pale  face  pressed 
against  the  rough  bark.  A  Pagan  might 
have  so  leaned  in  those  long-ago  first  daj'a 
of  the  world,  entreating,  from  the  unseen 
oracle  within,  counsel  on  the  riddle  of 
his  life — the  love  or  the  hate  that  vexed 
his  soul  nigh  to  death  ;  but  I  doubt  if 
to  this  poor  fellow,  as  he  stood,  came 
one  thought  of  Dallas  Galbraith,  his 
petty  wrongs  or  hopes.  Yet  I  doubt 
also  if  he  was  conscious  that  any  voice 
called  to  him  from  depths  far  underlying 
his  own  mean  Hfe,  though  the  mother 
Nature  beneath  him,  from  whose  womb 
we  all  came,  and  whose  hold  we  thrust 
from  us  unthankfully,  tried  to  win  back 
this  boy  with  an  especial  pathetic  ten- 
derness— a  tenderness  akin  to  that  other 
unknown  Parent  who  had  given  him 
life  through  her.  Only  a  great  quiet 
came  presendy  to  him  through  the  in- 
articulate murmur  of  the  forest,  as  it  did 
when  he  was  a  boy ;  and  after  a  while 
he  heaped  some  dried  leaves  together, 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


75 


as  he  used  so  often  to  do,  and,  button- 
ing his  coat  about  him,  lay  down  and 
slept  until  morning. 

A  cold  wind,  fresh  from  the  frosty 
chambers  of  the  east,  that  forced  his 
eyelids  open,  and  made  him  stand  up 
and  run  to  and  fro  to  warm  his  chilled 
blood,  his  face  heating,  his  eyes  kindling  ; 
he,  free  to  go  where  he  would.  Free  ; 
the  woods,  the  valley  full  of  homes,  the 
terrible  mountains  open  to  him,  and,  be- 
yond, the  great,  untried  world.  No  low 
plaster  ceiling  between  him  and  the 
morning  of  the  new  day  slowly  unfolding 
in  heaven  from  dazzling  wet  depths  of 
pearl  and  rose  :  nothing  to  hinder  him 
if  he  chose  to  stand  idle  and  watch  the 
shining  flakes  of  mist  hanging  over  some 
of  the  far-off  mountain  lakes,  as  though 
the  spirit  of  the  water,  escaping  from  its 
frozen  body  below,  suffered  the  glitter  of 
its  plumes  to  be  seen  by  the  sudden  day. 
Free — altogether  free. 

Here  went  a  squirrel's  scratching  feet 
through  the  leaves  ;  there  was  the  Indian 
Creek  curdling  over  its  lead-colored  slate 
bed  ;  underfoot,  red,  trumpet  and  purple 
mosses  were  blackening :  over  all,  the 
white  hoar-frost.  One  had  need  to  waken 
every  morning  for  five  years  in  one  of 
man's  reformatory  schools — a  slimy  stone 
cell,  with  a  solitarj-  seat  in  one  corner  and 
a  cess-pool  in  the  other — to  understand 
what  God  meant  by  these  things. 

Galbraith's  body  was  as  healthy  as 
that  of  a  savage  :  consequently,  he  had 
sprung  up  from  his  bed  on  the  ground 
with  a  new  lightness  and  freedom  from 
ache,  and  went  down  to  the  creek  to 
bathe,  whistling  some  of  the  old  Mana- 
squan  songs.  He  threw  himself  into  the 
water,  drank  it,  wrestled  with  it,  shout- 
ing breathlessly  to  himself,  wishing  he 
had  some  hearty,  good  fellow  to  keep  him 
company.  How  alive  it  was  !  how  it 
flashed,  and  held  him  down,  and  closed 
over  him  !  He  came  out  glowing,  clean 
without  as  within:  the  slimy  cell,  the 
Galbraith  house,  the  Something  that  was 
always  against  him,  all  sunken  into 
miserable  dyspeptic  dreams. 

As  he  dressed,  he  heard  far-off  voices 
calling — a  traveler  on  the  road  which  he 
had  deserted  hailing    some  laborer  as 


he  passed.  Galbraith  Hstened  without 
change  of  countenance,  though  the  voice 
and  the  steps  he  had  heard  the  evening 
before  both  belonged  to  that  nameless  ill- 
luck  that  had  dogged  and  mastered  him. 
It  was  upon  his  trail  again:  he  had 
known  that  last  night,  with  the  first  echo 
of  the  coming  footsteps.  But  what  with 
his  freedom  and  the  old  wood-life  come 
back  to  him,  the  pompous,  tempting 
voice,  and  the  vice  and  misery  of  which 
it  was  the  sign,  seemed  as  trivial  and  far- 
off  a  matter  as  the  song  of  the  bird  from 
yonder  maple,  and  to  call  as  little  on  him 
for  revenge. 

The  Spirit  of  Life  may  wait  in  a  sleep 
under  the  bare  November  trees,  or  a 
plunge  in  the  wood-creek,  as  ready  as  in 
the  water  of  the  font  to  wash  away  sin. 

Galbraith  took  down  his  precious  roll 
and  buttoned  it  up  again  under  his  coat 
"  Now  for  breakfast !"  striking  out  for 
the  road  again. 

He  was  as  famished  as  a  hound  after 
a  day's  run :  after  he  had  leaped  the  low 
fence  into  the  road,  therefore,  he  did  not 
stop  to  look  back.  The  traveler,  wto 
had  caught  sight  of  him  when  he  first 
left  the  woods,  followed  him  unseen. 
There  was  nothing  stealthy  in  the  man's 
walk :  it  was  slow,  weighty,  grandiloquent 
— quite  in  keeping  with  his  handsome, 
portly  figure  and  the  superfine  black 
clothes  that  he  wore.  A  magnificent 
jetty  beard  rolled  down  over  his  wide 
shirt  front  ;  big  carbuncles  shone  in  his 
breast  and  wristbands  ;  a  topaz  on  his 
thick,  white  finger.  There  was  nothing 
furtive  in  the  dead  black  eye  with  which 
he  scanned  boldly  the  trees  and  moun- 
tains, as  he  would  have  done  any  earthly 
potentate,  weighing  their  value  in  his 
own  private,  native-American  scales. 
Most  men  would  have  gone  to  him  for 
charity,  if  they  needed  it,  and  never  have 
been  turned  away  empty.  But  no  wo- 
man would  have  asked  it  from  him.  He 
had  grown  fat  and  scant  o'  breath  in  late 
years,  and  puffed  hard  with  the  exertion 
of  keeping  the  lithe  young  fellow  before 
him  in  sight.  He  did  it,  however,  drop- 
ping hastily  behind  a  friendly  tree  when- 
ever Dallas  turned  his  head  to  one  side 
or  the  other.     He  stopped,  at  last :  Gal- 


1^ 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


braith  had  gone  into  a  low  stone  house 
built  under  the  shelter  of  the  hill. 

"  There,  eh  ?  Now,  as  I've  run  him 
to  earth,  I  may  as  well  go  back  to  town 
for  my  breakfast.  I'll  know  where  to 
find  him.  An  infernal  run  I've  had, 
from  Albany  to  this  backwoods  !  I 
wish  the  poor  devil  had  a  bottle  from 
my  champagne  basket.  It's  poor  grub 
he'll  find  yonder.  Never  travel  without 
your  own  provision — that's  George  Lad- 
doun's  advice."  Which  was  the  current 
of  his  thought  as  he  swelled  and  strode 
and  panted  back  to  town.  Nobody  but 
idiots  think  aloud,  and  George  Laddoun 
had  learned  by  this  time  to  keep  his  se- 
cret opinions  to  himself,  even  about  his 
drink  and  "  gmb." 

The  Indian  Queen  was  just  waking  up. 
It  was  a  queer  little  hiding-place,  built  of 
triangular  wedges  of  stone,  mortared  with 
what  appeared  to  be  yellow  clay,  and  had 
a  solid,  composed  look  at  all  times,  ready 
to  drop  off  asleep  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  day.  As  usual  with  country  houses, 
tlie  trees  were  cut  away  from  about  it,  and 
the  sombre  shadow  of  the  mountain  fell 
back  from  it,  leaving  it  to  put  on  its 
brightest  good-morning  face  for  Gal- 
braith.  Any  house  that  was  a  home 
would  have  seemed  heartsome  to  him 
just  then,  so  strong  and  zealous  was  he 
to  begin  his  life  over  again  ;  but,  as  it 
was,  never  was  such  a  welcome  as  that 
of  the  homely  little  wood-snuggery. 
There  was  a  broad,  short  porch,  hold- 
ing out  a  hospitable  greeting,  with  two 
hickory-woven  rocking-chairs  on  it,  ready 
and  waiting  night  and  day :  there  was 
an  open  door,  and  a  wide  kitchen  within. 
Was  ever  a  fire  like  that  great  ruddy 
coal  monster  ?  Was  there  ever  a  chub- 
bier, tidier  woman  than  the  brisk  little 
landlady  turning  the  buckwheat  cakes  ? 
Never,  when  Galbraith  was  out  in  the 
world,  did  they  cram  such  small  spaces 
with  such  promise  of  good  cheer :  the 
very  walls  inside  were  draped  in  hams 
and  links  of  sausage,  and  the  porch  was 
a  tangled  web  overhead  of  dried  peaches 
and  onions.  There  was  a  mossy  pump 
and  trough  with  one  or  two  cows  beside 
it — a  peculiar  breed  of  cows,  surely, 
wonderfully  fat  and  comfortable  ;  and  a 


boy  in  a  red  shirt  stood  pumping,  and 
hitching  up  his  trowsers  with  the 
other  hand — a  singularly  honest-faced 
boy  ! 

Dallas  came  up  with  his  heart  throb- 
bing thick  and  hot.  It  had  cost  him 
little  to  avow  himself  a  convict  to  his 
kinsfolk  last  night ;  but  now,  if  these  la- 
borers had  looked  suspicious  or  askance 
at  him,  it  would  have  been  like  a  savage 
blow  in  the  face. 

Washington,  the  cow-boy,  however, 
nodded  patronizingly,  giving  his  suspend- 
ers an  additional  tug  of  courtesy.  The 
stranger  was  of  another  quality  from  the 
wagoners  \y\\o  made  the  Indian  Queen 
their  half-way  house  to  the  village. 
"  You're  just  in  time,"  he  said,  nodding 
to  the  steaming  cakes  inside. 

Peggy  Beck  came  herself  to  the  door. 
"You're  for  breakfast,  sir?"  She  thought 
the  pale,  leisurely  man  in  black  clothes 
coming  up  the  steps  was  an  itinerant 
preacher. 

It  marked  a  turning-point  in  his  life, 
that  this  clean,  honest-eyed  woman 
should  courtesy  to  him  and  say,  "  Sir." 
He  colored  high.  "  Yes,  I  will  go  in," 
he  said.  She  ushered  him  into  a  square 
little  parlor,  with  striped  carpet  on  the 
floor,  puffed  muslin  curtains,  and  a  table 
in  the  centre,  with  Lalla  Rookh  and  a  year- 
old  fashion-magazine  on  it :  she  pulled 
out  another  hickory  rocking-chair,  padded 
with  Turkey-red  cushions,  for  him,  and 
put  a  match  to  the  wood  and  coal  in 
the  shining  grate,  chattering  about  the 
weather,  and  the  road,  and  the  markets 
down  below.  Dallas  sat  looking  in  the 
fire,  rubbing  his  hands. 

When  the  breakfast  was  spread  before 
him,  she  brought  in  pen  and  ink,  and  a 
child's  copy-book  with  a  page  or  two  of 
scrawled  names  in  front.  She  begged 
his  pardon,  but  "  Beck,  He  was  used  to 
being  in  large  hotels  before  He  was  mar- 
ried, and  He  had  a  fancy  to  kerry  on  the 
house  on  the  same  plan.  He'd  got  up 
a  register,  as  the  gentleman  would  see, 
for  folks  as  stays  over  night.  If  he 
(Dallas)  would  just  enter  his  name 
there  V  pointing  to  a  blank  where  she 
had  calculated  there  was  ample  space 
for  the  Rev. 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


77 


"  My  name  ? — my  name  ?"'  said  Dal- 
las, slowly,  looking  at  the  book. 

Peggj-  nodded  and  smiled,  and  swept 
the  plate  of  cold  cakes  from  the  table. 
When  she  peeped  in,  after  a  while,  Gal- 
braith  still  sat  looking  at  the  copy-book, 
tlie  unused  pen  in  his  fingers.  All  that 
these  years  had  brought  to  him  in  which 
he  had  been  nameless  and  placeless  in 
tlie  world  came  up  before  him.  Once 
or  twice  in  that  time  he  remembered  he 
had  written  notes  to  the  prison  warden, 
asking  for  books  and  the  like,  and  had 
signed  them  "  Seventy-nine."  There 
was  no  other  identity  for  any  man  in 
that  living  grave  than  the  number  of  his 
tomb. 

Now —  He  looked  up  at  the  free 
air,  the  blue  sky  outside.  The  tears 
came  into  his  eyes  as  though  he  had 
been  a  woman.  Then  he  pulled  the 
little  book  toward  him,  and,  dipping 
the  pen  in  the  ink,  wrote,  slowly  and 
carefully,  Dallas  Galbralt/t,  looking  at 
it  a  long  time  after  it  was  done. 

Pegg}-  carried  it  without  a  glance  into 
the  kitchen,  and  then  hurried  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity.  The  hand  was  uncertain 
and  shaky  for  so  young  a  man,  she 
thought  ;  while  there  was  passing 
through  Dallas'  brain  inside  some  con- 
fused, half-understood  words  of  a  bap- 
tismal service  he  had  once  seen:  "A 
death  unto  sin  and  a  new  birth  unto 
righteousness." 

Every  trifle  about  him  conspired  to 
add  to  his  content.  When  the  heart  of 
the  earth  is  warm,  one  can  find  flowers 
in  the  poorest  soil.  Pegg}-  had  laid  the 
little  table  with  her  choice  china  cups 
and  a  white  napkin — things  which  be- 
longed only  to  that  long-ago  part  of 
Dallas'  hfe  with  his  mother  ;  for,  through 
all  their  want,  she  had  held  to  these  Httle 
outward  shows.  The  old  innocent  time 
was  coming  back  then.  Presently,  too, 
he  heard  Peggy's  voice  calling  to  Wash 
to  build  a  fire  in  Mr.  Galbraith's  room. 
Now,  Dallas  had  been  a  boy  when  taken 
from  Manasquan  ;  after  that,  a  convict. 
This  name  belonged  to  a  man.  respected 
among  men.  The  title  which  every  ruf- 
fian bears  among  us  thrilled  the  poor 
lad's  blood.     It  put  him,  somehow,  on 


a  solid  foothold,  from  which  the  future 
lay  within  his  grasp.  It  "hailed  him 
thane,  that  should  be  king  hereafter." 

Then  a  little  four-year  old  fellow,  in  a 
blue  blouse  (on  which  Peggy  had  just 
pinned  a  white  collar),  came  shyly  in 
and  stood  wistfully  inspecting  first  Gal- 
braith  and  then  the  breakfast-table. 

"My  name's  Matt,"  he  volunteered. 

"Will  you  shake  hands  w^ith  me, 
Matt.?"  said  Dallas,  gravely.  But  he 
did  not  hold  out  his  hand  until  the  boy 
had  put  his  own  red  little  fingers  on  it. 

"You  had  no  honey  for  breakfast. 
Matt  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"  Nor  meat .''  Then  here's  a  chair. 
Don't  take  him  away,  madam.  I'll  have 
him  here,  if  you  please.  It's  a  long 
time  since  I've  had  a  guest,  and  I'd  like 
the  child  to  be  the  first.  Another  clean 
plate.  And  a  napkin.  Now,  Matt ! 
You're  not  half  so  hungiy  as  I  am,  VW. 
venture." 

"  Lord,  sir,  you'll  ruin  the  boy  !"  cried 
Peggy,  chuckling  with  delight.  "He's 
alius  too  forard,  Matt  is." 

"  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  children," 
said  Dallas.  "We  will  be  good  friends 
in  a  little  time." 

Pegg\-  went  out  to  meet  her  husband, 
making  haste  to  cram  all  her  news,  with 
the  final  "peartness  of  Matt,'' into  his 
progress  from  the  hay-mow  to  the  house. 
When  Galbraith  had  finished  eating  and 
went  out,  holding  the  boy  by  the  hand 
on  the  porch,  he  found  Beck  waiting  for 
him — a  sandy-haired,  stocky  fellow,  with 
his  trowsers  thrust  into  his  boots. 

"Morning,  sir!"  nodding  shortly. 

Dallas  took  ofl"  his  cap  and  faced  him 
as  he  replied.  If  discovery  or  insult 
was  to  come,  the  sooner  he  met  it  the 
better.  But  the  close-cut  hair  conveved 
no  other  meaning  to  the  man's  mind 
than  a  new  whim  of  the  townsfolk. 

"You've  come  from  the  country  be- 
low, I  reckon,  Mr.  Galbraith.  It's  full 
of  your  kin  down  thar.  They  do  say, 
ther's  been  as  many  as  thirty  Galbraiths 
voted  on  election.  But  I  don't  fad 
myself  with  such  things.  I  grind  my 
own  grist,  /  do." 

"A  safe  plan,  I  think." 


78 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"You're  goin'  out  for  a  walk,  sir? 
Kind  of  colporture,  now  ?" 

"  No.  I  thought  I  detected  a  species 
of  marl  in  your  soil  yesterday — " 

"  Hey  ?     What  say  ?" 

"  Marl,"  in  an  explanatory  tone.  "  And 
I'd  like  to  look  into  it.  Your  little  boy 
can  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Matt  ?  Well,  now,  what  for  would 
you  be  bothered  with  Matt  ?  Lord, 
Peggy,  what's  the  odds  for  the  child's 
new  hat  ?  She's  like  a  cluckin'  hen. 
Peg  is  !  And  you're  going  to  look  for 
marl  ?  Toh  be  sure — toh  be  sure  !" 
watching  him  go  down  the  hill  with  a 
perplexed  shake  of  the  head. 

It  was  near  dusk  before  Dallas  re- 
turned. Beck  and  his  wife  were  keep- 
ing watch  for  him  on  the  porch,  while  a 
compact,  business-like  looking  man,  in  a 
working  suit  of  gray  cassimere,  stood 
impatiently  switching  his  boot  with  his 
whip  on  the  lower  step.  His  horse  was 
waiting  by  the  post. 

"  Yon's  he,  Mr.  Evans,"  said  Peggy, 
as  Galbraith  came  up  the  hill  with  Matt 
riding  pick-a-back  on  his  shoulders,  the 
two  talking  earnestly,  as  though  they 
were  both  men  grown. 

"  He  answers  the  description."  The 
stranger  inspected  Dallas  keenly  as  he 
came  up  and,  shding  Matt  off,  bowed  in 
his  usual  grave  manner  to  the  group  on 
the  porch. 

"  Matt  and  I  are  ready  for  supper, 
Mrs.  Beck,"  he  said ;  and  then,  without 
farther  notice  of  any  of  them,  sat  down 
on  the  steps,  and  began  to  unload,  out 
of  his  hat,  his  pockets  and  bundles  se- 
cured in  his  shirt-bosom,  bits  of  rock, 
earths  and  roots. 

"  It's  the  man,"  whispered  Evans, 
nodding  confidently  to  Beck  and  his 
wife.  "  Been  pros-pecting  the  country 
around,  sir  ?  Sile's  poor  's  high  as  this. 
Needs  manure." 

"  You  have  it  ready  for  use,"  without 
looking  up  from  his  work.  "  I  find  cal- 
careous matter  through  all  the  shale, 
which  is  nothing  else  than  marl.  Im- 
pure, but  you  would  find  it  serve.  I 
am  surprised  that  it  is  not  used." 

"  Calcarous,  eh  ?"  doubtfully,  rubbing 
his  chin.     "Like  as  not     I'm  not  up 


in  them  things.  What  I  am  up  in," 
briskly,  "  is  work  to  be  done  and  money 
to  pay  for  it      I  give  good  wages." 

Beck  and  Peggy  had  retreated  to  the 
kitchen  for  form's  sake,  but  left  the  door 
open  to  listen.  In  this  sparsely-settled 
mountain  district,  where  every  man,  or- 
dinarily, drudged  on  at  the  same  work 
from  boyhood  until  old  age,  the  offer 
which  Evans  had  come  to  make  ap- 
peared to  them  a  something  out  of  the 
rules  of  nature.  But  Dallas,  with  his 
brows  knit,  was  sorting  his  stones,  hav- 
ing forgotten,  apparently,  there  was  any- 
thing in  the  world  outside  of  them. 

"Look  hyah,  sir!"  said  Evans,  raising 
his  voice  ;  "  I'm  on  business,  d'ye  see  ? 
I  have  a  stone-quarry  some  miles  from 
hyah,  and  I'm  on  the  look-out  for  men 
to  work  it — strong,  able-bodied  fellars. 
Seems  to  me  you're  of  that  make." 

"  What's  the  color  of  your  stone  ?" 
looking  up  eagerly.  "Olive  and  buff? 
How  high  does  it  lie  over  the  coal-beds  ?" 

"  High  enough  for  the  beasts  to  have 
a  devil  of  a  pull  up.  As  for  the  color, 
you'd  best  come  look  for  yourself" 

"  I  will.  Rogers  suggests,  I  remem- 
ber, that,  in  the  high  micaceous  sand- 
stone of  this  range,  there  is  a  probability 
of  finding  Permian  fossils.  I'd  be  sorry 
to  neglect  such  a  chance." 

"  That's  as  you  choose.  But  I  came 
on  business,"  sharply.  "  If  you  want 
steady  work  till  winter  sets  in,  I'll  give 
it  to  you.  I  was  directed  to — that  is, 
I'll  make  you  a  fair  offer." 

"  Work  ?     In  the  stone-quarrj'  ?" 

"Yes." 

While  Evans  waited  impatiently  for 
his  answer,  DaUas  turned  over  his  bits 
of  coal  critically,  but  with  his  wide  mouth 
shut  firmly.  He  was  going  back  to  the 
seaboard  cities  to  begin  life  afresh,  but 
he  must  see  Lizzy  again.  And  his  moth- 
er? He  had  carried  the  glimpse  he  had 
of  her  last  night  all  day  in  his  heart — 
beautiful,  richly  clothed,  gay — under  all 
his  plodding  meditations  on  coal  and 
earths.  There  was  something  in  the 
picture  which  gave  a  sore  pain  to  his 
simple,  affectionate  nature.  He  was  glad 
she  was  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen 
every  day,  but  the  remembrance  of  the 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


79 


purple  and  linen  made  him  feel  more 
tlian  ever  like  Lazarus,  who  lay  in  rags 
and  sores  outside  of  the  palace  gates. 
She  should  not  be  ashamed  of  him. 
She  should  not  see  or  know  him  until 
he  was  worthy  of  her.  He  would  hurry 
to  the  East,  find  his  fitting  work  and 
make  himself  a  man.  But,  before  he 
went,  he  meant  to  steal  one  last  look  at 
the  sweet  old  familiar  face.  He  must 
take  care  of  Lizzy,  too,  and —  There 
was  a  shadow  of  danger  which  he  would 
not  fly  from.  But  he  had  no  money  to 
pay  these  good  people  for  his  board  be- 
yond to-night. 

He  put  down  his  coal  and  turned  to 
Evans.  "  I'll  work  for  you  six  hours  a 
day,  at  current  prices,  for  two  weeks,  per- 
haps longer." 

"And  dictate  your  own  terms  ?  That's 
not  the  custom  with  my  hands.  But  so 
be  it ;  you're  a  pecoolar  case.  I'm  not 
the  owner  of  the  quarry.  You'll  come 
to  work  to-morrow.  Only  six  hours, 
eh?" 

«  I  will  not  work  full  time,"  gathering 
up  his  specimens  composedly.  "  There 
are  matters  that  I  must  attend  to.  And 
I  want  to  look  into  the  structure  of  this 
bituminous  trough  of  the  AUeghenies. 
It  is  new  to  me." 

"Well,  good-day.  I've  done  my  part. 
The  fellow's  in  a  groove  now,  I  reckon, 
that'll  take  him  into  luck  if  he's  the  right 
grit  in  him,"  he  said,  in  a  mysterious 
undertone,  to  Beck,  when  he  came  down 
to  untie  his  horse,  and  then,  tapping  his 
old  felt  hat,  he  rode  off. 

When  he  reached  the  brow  of  the 
next  hill  he  met  a  horseman  coming 
into  the  road  from  a  by-path,  but  riding 
so  leisurely,  and  turning  so  promptly  in 
the  same  direction  as  himself,  that  it 
occurred  to  Evans,  afterward,  he  had 
been  lying  there  in  wait  for  him.  He  was 
careful  to  bow  as  they  exchanged  good- 
day :  he  flattered  himself  that  he  knew  the 
gentleman  when  he  saw  him  ;  and  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  polish  of  this  man. 
It  asserted  itself  from  his  fine  open  face  to 
his  fashionably-made  boots.  There  was 
no  blinding  Evans  in  matters  of  this  sort. 
They  fell  into  talk  as  they  jogged  along. 
Such  a  flow  of  language  as  the  stranger 


had  !  Such  ktiowledge  of  the  resources 
of  West  Virginia,  though  he  confessed 
he  had  been  here  but  two  days  !  How 
the  mysteries  of  "  two-thirds  representa- 
tion," "black  basis"  and  the  like  rattled 
from  his  tongue  ! 

Presently,  in  a  break  of  the  discussion, 
he  said,  carelessly:  "You  came  up  from 
the  Indian  Queen  ?  There's  a  stranger 
there — a  young  fellow  that  I  used  to 
know — how  is  this  they  call  him  ?" 

"  Galbraith  ?" 

"True,  true!  His  own  name,  eh?" 
with  an  astonishment  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  hide. 

"  Why,  what  other  should  he  have  ?" 

"None  other.  Only  some  men,"  with 
a  loud  laugh,  "  use  their  names  as  they 
do  their  cloaks — put  them  off  and  on  to 
suit  the  weather.  Not  that  Galbraith  is 
one  of  that  sort.  He's  an  old  chum  of 
mine — a  clever,  honest  fellow.  By-the- 
bye,  he  has  some  kinsfolk  in  this  part 
of  the  State  ?" 

"Very  far-off  kin  of  them  old  country 
people,  I  judge.  They're  well-to-do. 
I've  just  hired  him  as  hand  in  my  stone- 
quarry." 

"  You  have  ?"  The  news  seemed  to 
affect  the  man  curiously,  considering  its 
trivial  importance,  Evans  thought ;  he 
rode  on  in  silence,  a  gloomy  depression 
growing  visible  on  his  face,  and  when 
he  spoke,  did  it  with  a  nervous  effort  at 
gayety.  At  the  first  cross-road  he  turned, 
touching  his  hat  courteously. 

"  Glad  to  have  met  you,"  said  Evans. 
"  Call  at  my  house  if  you're  long  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  Introduce  you  to 
my  wife  and  daughters." 

"You  tempt  me,  sir.  Woman,  fair 
woman  !"  pressing  his  fat,  white  hand 
to  his  breast.  "That's  the  toast  I  drink ! 
But  I  will  not  stay.  I  came  here  on 
business  that  brought  me  from  Califor- 
nia, and  I  see  it's  hkely  to  be  a  miser- 
able flash  in  the  pan,  after  all." 

Having  left  Evans,  he  put  his  horse 
into  a  gallop  to  ride  off"  some  secret  irri- 
tation, and  apparently  succeeded,  for 
when  he  reached  the  village  tavern  he 
got  off  in  his  usual  glow  of  good  humor, 
joking  in  a  lofty  way  with  the  loafers  in 
the   bar-room   as    he   passed    through. 


8o 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Going  to  his  own  room,  he  dashed  off  a 
letter,  part  of  which  ran  as  follows : 

"  I  trust  you  will  not  blame  me  for  my 
failure,    McGill.      No   man    could    have 
more  influence  than  I  to  push  the  mat- 
ter in    New  York.     George    Laddoun's 
name,   I   will  say,  carries  weight  there. 
But  it  was  no  go.     The  market's  over- 
stocked by  bogus  California  companies  : 
the  solid  men  laugh  at  the  very  mention 
of  ranches  or  mines,  and  the  solid  men 
were  what  we  wanted.     I'm  afraid  it  is 
all  up  with  us   on  that    count.     There 
was  another  matter  which  brought  me 
home  at  this  particular  season,  which  I 
did  not  mention  to  you.     An  old  friend 
of  mine    had    been    in    trouble,   and    I 
thought  the  time  had  come  when  I  could 
give  him  a  helping  hand.     Before  God, 
Mac,  I'd  rather  have  hoisted  that  poor 
wretch  on  to  good   ground  again   than 
have  cleared  half  a  million  by  our  plan. 
But  having  tracked  him  out  here,  I  find 
that  there  is  a  chance  of  his  falling  heir 
to  a  good  estate.     If  that's  the  case,  as 
soon  as  he  is  placed  we  are  sure  of  effi- 
cient help  from  him.     I  think  I  deserve 
it  from  him.     I   took  the  fellow  out  of 
tlie  gutter,  though  I  don't  like  to  boast 
of  such  matters.     If  he  don't  do  it  will- 
ingly, I've  a  way  to  leech  him.     I   can 
draw   on  him  for  what  cash    I    please. 
He  has  a  bad  record,  has   Dall,  and   I 
fancy  it  would  surprise  his  family  here 
to  see  it  opened  up.     But  the  business 
must  necessarily  be  slow.     I  should  not 
wonder  if  I  came  out  to  you  in  the  spring, 
and  let  it  lay  over  until  it  is  ripe.    Mean- 
while— "  etc.,  etc. 

The  letter  was  mailed  that  night,  di- 
rected, in  Laddoun's  bold,  clerkly  hand, 
to  J.  T.  McGill,  San  Francisco. 

Meanwhile,  Dallas  sat  eating  his  sup- 
per, with  Matt  beside  him,  until  that 
small  comrade's  ambition  gave  out  and 
he  fell  asleep  in  his  high  chair.  Beck 
and  his  wife,  with  one  excuse  after 
another,  came  in  afterward  and  talked 
until  bed-time,  finding  Galbraith,  as 
Peggy  reported,  "  the  quietest  man  she 
knowed,  but  with  a  laugh  that  was 
heartenin'  when  it  broke  out.  And  as 
curous  to  hear  our  talk  of  how  people 


lived  hyah  as  if  he'd  been  blind  and  deaf 
aU  his  days." 

Galbraith,  going  up  to  his  room,  found 
white  walls,  a  white  bed  and  a  crackling 
fire.  He  put  away  his  treasures  of  ore 
and  coals  on  the  mantel-shelf  with  a 
proud  sense  of  possession,  and  sat  look- 
ing into  the  fire  a  long  time.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  in  this  pure  little  closet, 
among  these  honest  people,  he  was 
launched,  and  had  sailed  a  long  way  on 
his  new  hfe,  leaving  the  miserable  shore 
far  behind.  It  was  a  new  world  in 
which  he  found  himself— one  to  which 
Peggy  might  well  guess  he  had  long 
been  deaf  and  Wind.  Decent,  simple, 
kindly.  The  old  Manasquan  air  was 
about  him  again.  Then  the  hobby  of 
his  Hfe  rose  uppermost  in  the  man's 
mind :  the  faces  of  two  or  three  children 
he  had  seen  during  his  confinement  came 
before  him,  as  they  always  did  now  when 
he  was  alone,  but  this  time  only  to  make 
the  blood  quicken  and  his  eye  flash. 

"  I'll  give  the  httle  ones  a  chance," 
he  muttered.  "  It  is  not  so  hard  as  I 
thought  to  clear  myself  and  them  of  that 
filth  of  hell." 

It  did  not  seem  hard  to  him,  as  he 
undressed  and  lay  down  to  sleep,  to 
make  anything  he  pleased  of  them  and 
of  himself  Galbraith's  narrow  brain 
would  hardly  give  birth  to  any  imper- 
sonal scheme  of  philanthropy.  It  was 
not  love  of  humanity  that  made  him  a 
reformer,  but  a  simple  love  of  children, 
and  a  resolve,  born  long  ago  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  his  pain,  to  keep  back  from 
them  the  wolf  that  had  so  sorely  torn  his 
own  flesh.  He  did  not  leave  himself 
out  of  the  question  either :  he  meant  to 
be  cultured,  efficient — whatever  the  best 
man  was,  up  in  that  better  world  in  which 
he  meant  to  take  his  part.  There  were 
some  dumb  words,  some  vague  hunger 
within  him,  which  he  had  tried  to  ex- 
press in  the  poor  daubs  of  pictures  which 
lay  under  his  pillow.  He  touched  them 
tenderly.  He  believed  that  even  yet  he 
should  find  language  through  them. 

Most  of  all,  he  thought  he  would  like 
to  go  back  to  Manasquan  some  day,  and 
that  the  people  there  should  know  him 
to  be  innocent,  and  be  friendly  with  him, 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Si 


as  they  once  were.  But  that  could  never 
be.  Never.  There  was  no  way  on 
earth  of  clearing  himself  of  that  stain. 

All  of  Galbraith's  ambitions  and  plans 
were  as  yet  bloodless  and  colorless  com- 
pared to  those  of  ordinary  young  men. 
Of  money,  because  of  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  his  life,  he  did  not  know 
the  power.  Of  women,  since  he  was  a 
boy  he  had  seen  only  those  who  were 
harder  and  coarser  than  men. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Paul  Dour,  going  out  for  a  stroll  in 
the  bright  Indian  summer  morning,  saw 
Miss  Dundas'  horse  and  her  uncle's 
brought  up  to  the  gate  for  them  to  mount. 
1 1  generally  chanced  that  he  was  near  when 
it  was  time  for  Miss  Dundas  to  mount. 
Little,  plump  Gerty  Rattlin  was  going 
through  the  garden- walks  cutting  crimson 
seed-vessels  from  the  roses,  and  wild  cot- 
ton-pods for  a  berry-pot.  She  generally 
was  gathering  berries  for  that  pot  when 
Paul  went  out  for  a  stroll. 

He  saw  her  bewitching  face  peeping  at 
him  through  the  bare  grape  vines,  a  cherry- 
colored  web  of  chenille  tied  over  her  dark 
curls  ;  so  he  called  to  her  "  Red  Riding 
Hood,"  and  bade  her  take  care  lest  she 
meet  the  wolf  in  the  way ;  and  then  saun- 
tered on  more  rapidly  to  the  gate,  with  a 
ver\-  unnecessary  heat  in  his  cheeks,  while 
the  heart  began  to  throb  under  Gert}-'s 
tight- laced  jacket,  as  she  snipped  at  the 
stems  with  her  scissors.  What  did  he 
mean  by  that  ?  He  must  mean  something 
by  that.  Perhaps  the  wolf  was — Love. 
He  had  such  an  unusual,  poetic  way  of 
putting  things !  The  little  woman  was 
quite  willing  to  meet  that  wolf  in  the 
garden.  For  two  weeks  she  had  been 
waiting  for  his  coming,  her  stupid  heart 
in  an  agony  of  hope  and  fear.  She  was 
calmer  this  morning.  Last  night  Paul 
had  held  her  little,  fat  hand  in  his,  and 
offered  to  tell  her  fortune,  '-if  there  were 
a  solitar}'  wrinkle  in  the  soft,  rosy  thing." 
That  meant  even,lhing,  of  course  !  She 
did  not  go  to  her  mother  or  Rose  with  the 
story,  as  she  had  when  John  Stokes,  in  the 
6 


village,  so  nearly  proposed :  she  laid  awake 
all  night  hugging  the  words  in  her  heart, 
pressing  all  the  sweetness  out  of  them. 

She  went  up  the  hill  for  some  brown 
pine-cones  (you  could  see  the  gate  from 
the  pines).  On  the  path  she  saw  a  bit 
of  paper  in  which  Dour  had  wrapped 
some  cigars,  and  picked  it  up  with  a 
frightened  glance  around ;  the  twist 
was  in  it  fresh  from  his  fingers,  the 
odor  was  the  same  which  hung  about 
his  clothes.  She  held  it  to  her  cheek, 
and  then,  her  forehead  all  red  and  damp, 
hid  it  in  her  bosom.  The  smell  of  Killi- 
kinick  was  sweeter  to  her  to-day  than 
attar  of  roses.  Some  day,  instead  of  a 
poor  bit  of  paper,  it  would  be  himself 
that  would  belong  to  her ! 

Then  rose  the  spectre  of  a  Gerty  Rat- 
tlin, lean  and  soured  and  shabby.  That 
old-maid  spectre  has  a  malignant  power 
over  girls  of  Gerty's  stamp.  She  turned 
from  it  and  followed  Dour  direct  to  the 
garden-gate.  She  found  Honora  mounted 
when  she  came  up,  and  Dour  leaning  on 
the  gate  watching  her.  She  wondered, 
with  a  quick  pang,  if  he  noticed  the 
satiny  cloth  in  Miss  Dundas'  green  habit, 
or  knew  the  cost  of  the  velvet  hat  daintily 
set  on  her  brown  hair.  As  for  Honora, 
inside  of  the  habit,  she  was  nothing  to 
the  other  girl  but  a  silly  child.  Paul 
knew,  by  the  tingling  of  his  blood,  that 
Gerty  and  her  berry-pot  were  at  hand  ; 
but  he  could  not  afford  to  let  his  blood 
counsel  him  in  this  matter.  This  mo- 
ment of  mounting  was  almost  his  only 
daily  chance  of  approaching  Honora: 
old  Mr.  Galbraith's  quiet,  amused  glances 
had  few  terrors  to  him,  compared  to  the 
fierce  old  duenna's  sarcasms  yonder  in 
the  house.  And  Gerty.  he  thought,  as 
he  cut  the  final  notches  in  a  willow  whip 
he  was  fashioning  for  Honora — Gerty 
was  but  a  beautiful  domestic  animal.  It 
was  an  intellectual  helpm.eet  a  man  of 
his  calibre  needed.  I3eside.s —  Madam 
Galbraith,  he  saw  had  no  mind  to  make 
a  protege  of  him ;  so  if  fate  put  a  for- 
tune in  his  way.  he  would  be  a  fool  not 
to  pick  it  up.  And  to  marry  Love  and  a 
troop  of  semi-paupers  like  the  Rattlins  ! 
He  was  no  Issachar  to  make  an  ass  of 
himself  for  life  between  two  such  burdens. 


DALLAS    GALBRAIJH. 


All  this  as  he  shaped  the  pretty  little 
whip.  He  held  it  up.  "See,  Miss 
Dundas.  It  is  a  wand  which  one  of 
the  dryads  has  sent  you." 

The  "  silly  child"  looked  solemn  as 
an  owl  down  at  him  from  her  deep-set, 
brilliant  eyes.  "  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  Mr.  Dour — the  dryad,  I  mean. 
We  are  late,  uncle!"  nervously  puUing 
her  rein  and  cantering  off.  "  You  see  I 
was  terribly  in  the  way,"  mysteriously, 
when  Mr.  Galbraith  reached  her  side. 
"  Gerty  and  he  were  out  walking.  It  is 
very  pleasant  to  watch  people  in  love," 
with  a  little  breath  of  a  sigh. 

"It  must  be  very  pleasant  to  be  in 
love  such  fine  weather  as  this,"  said  her 
uncle,  gravely,  with  a  quizzical  side  glance 
at  her. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  soberly.  She 
drew  off  her  glove,  but  when  she  took 
the  whip  in  her  bare  hand,  it  was  yet 
warm  from  contact  with  Dour's  fingers. 
She  threw  it  down  with  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  at  which  her  uncle  smiled.  He 
always  suspected  the  personal  instincts 
of  the  cool-mannered  little  body  to  be 
more  vehement  and  strong  than  a  man's. 
Yet,  after  all,  Honora's  antipathy  to 
Dour  was  natural.  No  man  is  an  in- 
different object  to  a  woman  who  never 
has  loved.  Until  the  needle  finds  the 
pole,  it  sways  to  and  fro,  attracted  and 
repulsed,  with  many  a  pang. 

They  made  a  pretty  picture  riding 
tlirough  the  woods  in  alternate  light  and 
shadow.  Paul  Dour  looked  after  them. 
It  was,  after  all,  a  great  relief  when  his 
efforts  at  gallantry  with  Miss  Dundas 
were  safely  over  for  the  day.  His  jokes, 
his  elaborated  wit,  his  delicate  allusions, 
full  of  college  lore,  seemed  lO  fall  on 
her  brain  like  Puck's  fairy  shafts  on 
muddy  clay.  There  was  no  response. 
But  wisdom  counseled  him  to  persevere. 
An  heiress  who  did  not  know  her  value 
in  the  market  was  a  something  not  to 
be  found  twice  in  life.  He  put  on  an 
armor  of  severe  reserve  when  he  turned 
to  Gerty.  Before  he  spoke,  nature, 
however,  had  the  dull  country  girl  ready 
armed  with  her  best  weapons.  She 
held  up  her  berries,  modestly  blushing : 
there  was  an  uneasy  srnile  on  her  irxex- 


pressive,  baby-face  terribly  pathetic  to 
Dour,  and  the  wind,  or  something  more 
bitter,  had  forced  tears  into  her  eyes. 
It  would  be  brutal  not  to  praise  her 
berries.  He  would  even  walk  with  the 
lonely  little  thing  back  to  the  house. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  when  the  de- 
parting summer  turns  back  to  give  to  the 
earth  a  farewell  embrace,  full  of  the  pas- 
sion and  pathos  of  remembrance.  The 
dead  leaves  crisped  drearily  beneath  their 
feet,  the  shadows  of  the  branches  flickered 
on  her  drooping  head,  the  soft  curls,  the 
wet  pink  cheeks.  He  did  not  walk  with 
her  to  the  house.  There  was  a  quiet  lane 
over  which  the  arching  trees  met,  shading 
the  path  even  where  the  leaves  were 
gone.  Dour  touched  her  arm  and  led 
her  into  it.  Some  power  stronger  than 
wisdom  was  at  work  with  him,  putting 
the  heiress  in  her  true  light  as  a  weari- 
some prig,  converting  the  world  into  a 
triumphal  throne,  on  which  he,  Paul  Dour, 
sat  regnant  in  this  rare,  dreamful  day 
alone,  with  one  worshiper  at  his  feet 
Then  some  nobler  impulse  rose  and 
slowly  mastered  him.  What  could  God 
give  him  on  this  golden  morning  so 
good  as  this  loving  woman  ?  He  leaned 
over  her,  his  eyes  upon  her  face.  The 
woody  scent  of  the  berries  came  up  to 
Gerty;  the  lane  was  long:  she  could 
almost  feel  his  breath  on  her  cheek. 
Through  all  the  years  that  went  before 
or  came  after,  that  hour  on  the  Indian 
summer  morning  stood  out  alone  for  ever 
in  Gerty's  shallow  life. 

They  came  to  a  little  gate  over  which 
a  woodbine  had  cHmbed.  It  hung  from 
the  trellis  now  in  a  black,  tangled  web, 
framing  the  girl  like  a  luscious  bit  of 
coloring,  shutting  her  out  from  the  world. 
Now,  Gerty  was  one  of  those  pulpy, 
dumpling,  pink-tinted  girls  whom  even 
women  like  to  kiss  and  fondle,  as  they 
do  babies.  It  was  not  the  philosopher 
Paul  Dour  that  stooped  over  her  breath- 
less and  took  her  hand.  It  was  a  better 
man,  perhaps,  inside  of  that  educated 
personage :  the  philosopher  knew  the 
cost  of  marriage,  now-a-days,  to  the 
price  of  a  pound  of  butter :  all  his 
pockets  were  buttoned  against  it. 

"  You  look  now  as  you  did  the  day  I 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


83 


first  saw  you,  witli  your  hair  blown  about 
your  face.  I  thought  Love  himself  must 
have  just  such  an  arch,  coaxing  smile. 
Whom  did  you  love  then.  Gerty  ?" 

"  Father  and  mother  and  Tony  and 
Rosy."  Gerty  called  off  the  roll  of  the 
Rattlins  with  an  unsteady  whisper,  John 
Stokes  suggesting  himself  secretly  to  her, 
but  being  rejected  with  scorn. 

"And  now,  Gerty — now?"  shutting 
his  lips  hard  as  he  waited  for  her  an- 
swer. 

She  turned  her  big,  deer-like  eyes  to 
him,  expectant,  wistful.  "  Who  should 
I  love  ?"  she  said,  faintly.  Her  crim- 
son, dewy  lips  were  near  his  own  ;  the 
wind  blew  a  tress  of  her  shining  hair 
over  his  face.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence,  during  which  Paul  Dour's  thin 
features  grew  very  pale.  Then  he  gently 
put  down  the  curl,  and,  taking  out  his 
handkerchief,  brushed  some  dust  from 
the  knees  of  his  best  black  trowsers. 

"It  must  be  near  lunch-time,"  he  said. 
"Rosy  will  laugh  at  us  if  we  stand  here 
starving  all  morning." 

When  he  had  escorted  her  to  the  door 
he  strolled  off,  mentally  clapping  himself 
on  the  shoulder.  "You're  an  honorable 
man,  Paul  Dour!"  he  said.  "Most  men 
would  have  kissed  that  girl's  Hps,"  think- 
ing in  his  secret  soul  that  he  would  give 
ten  years  of  his  life  for  the  right  to  kiss 
them.  Gerty  ran  up  to  her  room,  all 
flushed  and  breathless,  and,  not  finding 
Rosy  there,  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
sobbed  a  while,  getting  up  twice  to  peep 
in  the  glass,  to  see  how  she  had  looked 
through  it  all.  It  was  so  kind  in  Honora 
to  give  her  that  lovely  cherry-colored 
hood !  Then  she  went  into  her  mother's 
room,  and,  finding  her  all  askew  and  be- 
sieged by  the  children,  began  to  straighten 
her  dress  and  comb  her  gray  hair,  stoop- 
ing to  kiss  it  now  and  then.  Some  day 
she  would  be  rich  and  able  to  dress  the 
dear  little  mother  in  silks  as  rich  as  Mrs. 
Duffield's !  And  the  children  should 
never  know  the  hard  times  which  she 
and  Rosy  had  felt.  Never  !  Paul  was 
the  good  angel  who  would  carry  them 
all  through. 

Honora,  meanwhile,  had  dragged  her 
uncle   about   to   half  the   farms   in   the 


neighborhood,  as  she  did  whenever  he 
was  tractable  ;  sitting  in  the  house,  si- 
lently listening  to  the  women  discussing 
the  last  meeting  of  the  Female  Mite  So- 
ciety, while  he  gravely  inspected  pig-pens 
and  orchards.  He  rebelled,  finally,  when 
Squire  Pool's  gate  closed  behind  them. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  the  mountains  now," 
solemnly.  "  My  brain  has  been  sub- 
merged in  gossip  long  enough,  Honora, 
for  sound  health.  I  think  the  very  foun- 
tains of  it  must  have  been  broken  up  at 
the  last  sewing-circle.  You  have  an  in- 
satiable thirst  for  that  thing.  Pet.  You 
sit  dumb,  drinking  it  in  as  a  sponge  would 
water.  Never  a  drop  oozes  back  again, 
though.  It  comforts  me  to  see  tliat," 
with  a  half-anxious  scrutiny  of  her  face. 
Honora  was  a  study  of  which  he  never 
grew  weary. 

She  laughed,  blushing  uneasily. 
"  Where  will  we  ride,  uncle .?" 

"  Up  the  mountain,  if  you  will.  •  To 
the  stone-quarry.  Evans  has  employed 
some  new  men,  whom  I  should  like  to 
see." 

"  I'll  race  with  you  to  the  creek,  3'on- 
der  ?" 

"  Very  well."  Honora  came  in  first, 
delighted  as  a  child,  scarcely  noticing 
that  the  anxious  look  had  not  left  her 
companion's  face  when  he  rode  up.  She 
went  before,  after  that,  singing  to  her- 
self, stopping  to  gather  ferns  from  the 
overhanging  rocks,  calling  back  to  him 
now  and  then.  They  were  deep  in  the 
mountains,  and  the  day  was  far  beyond 
noon,  when  a  sullen  thunder,  echoing 
through  the  peaks,  warned  them  that 
the  quarry  was  at  hand. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  they  were  blast- 
ing rock  to-day.  Ride  slowly,  Honora, 
until  I  prevent  them  from  lighting  an- 
other fuse." 

She  nodded  gayly  and  fell  back,  patting 
her  pony's  neck.  Mr.  Galbraith  drew 
his  rein  as  he  passed  her,  and  scanned 
her  quickly  from  head  to  foot.  It  was 
a  speculative,  critical  look,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  bring  her  before  some  tribunal, 
and  wished  to  judge  of  the  effect  which 
she  would  produce.  But  Honora  saw 
nothing  of  it.  He  rode  away  slowly, 
going  round  a  bend  of  the  mountain  and 


84 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


out  of  sight.  She  grew  tired,  after  a 
while,  of  pacing  her  pony  to  and  fro  on 
the  httle  plateau  where  he  had  left  her, 
and  began  to  inspect  a  dusky,  half-worn 
path  leading  into  the  forest  of  gloomy 
oaks.  What  woman  can  resist  a  mys- 
terious, unknown  road  ? 

"  Maybe  it  is  a  path  which  the  ghosts 
of  the  dead  Cherokees  have  made  at  night 
in  their  old  hunting-grounds  while  the 
pale-faces  are  asleep  among  the  hills," 
thought  Honora.  "Or  I  might  find 
Giant  Despair  in  there,  or  Doubting  Cas- 
tle ;"  and,  smiling  to  herself,  yet  with 
her  heart  beating  a  little  faster,  she  dis- 
mounted, and,  tying  her  horse  to  a  tree, 
threw  her  skirt  over  her  arm  and  pushed 
aside  the  prickly  bushes  which  had 
guarded  the  entrance  to  the  path.  The 
forest  which  she  entered  extended  over 
the  most  desolate  and  solitary  recesses 
of  the  mountains.  The  path  but  skirted 
its  edge  :  the  dead  leaves  of  many  years 
were  heaped  on  each  side  in  rotten,  yel- 
low masses  against  the  rocks.  She  made 
her  way  through  the  gray-bearded  trunks 
of  the  gigantic  oaks  and  white-ash  that 
frowned  and  nodded  above,  holding  sol- 
emn converse  together  up  in  the  sunlight, 
as  they  had  done  for  centuries.  Her 
human  voice  or  human  steps  made  no 
more  bruit  in  their  slow,  incomprehen- 
sible life  than  the  worm  sliding  across 
their  roots.  Honora  was  always  strangelv 
oppressed  by  the  meanings  of  the  dumb 
world  about  her.  She  hurried  now  out 
from  the  vast  solitude  and  twilight  to 
find  the  open  day.  The  very  sunlight 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  every-day  cheer- 
fulness, and  to  belong  to  a  world  wherein 
the  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  sky  held 
council  together  as  the  ages  passed. 
The  little  girl  shrank  within  herself  in 
the  silence.  She  was  dwarfed  into  some- 
thing miserably  small  and  shallow  :  she 
thought  suddenly,  she  knew  not  why,  of 
her  crochet,  of  her  whole  paltry,  dawd- 
ling hfe.  Coming  out  from  the  path,  for 
she  dared  not  follow  it  farther,  she  stood 
suddenly  on  a  ledge  of  the  precipice. 
There  was  a  silence  that  might  be  felt. 
Was  it  here  that  these  eternal  hills  held 
hid  their  secret  ?  Down  at  her  feet  a 
wide  chasm  opened  out  to  the  distant 


horizon,  a  sluggish,  chocolate-colored 
stream  dragging  through  it,  shining  with 
a  dull  lustre  in  tl|p  sun.  On  either  side 
the  sky  rested  on  the  round,  clayey  moun- 
tain-tops, while  a  sirong  wind  drove  the 
rack  of  torn,  dun-colored  clouds  perpet- 
ually to  the  west.  The  mountain-sides 
had  been  lately  drained  by  tempests  ; 
near  her,  masses  of  forest  trees  had  been 
wrenched  out  and  fallen  together,  leaving 
great,  dripping  wounds  in  the  leaden 
shale  ;  farther  off  rose  the  ledges  of  the 
Old  Red  sandstone,  streaked  as  with  veins 
of  blood,  and  uncovered  to  the  day  but  for 
the  black  creepers  that  draped  and  waved 
over  the  whole  mountain's  side.  Beyond 
was  the  limestone  rock — a  white,  wan, 
implacable  rampart,  lost  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, barring  out  the  outer  world. 

Honora  turned  her  back  on  it  all. 
"Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,"  she 
thought,  humbly,  "  but  not  for  such  as  I." 

The  sun  shone  pleasantly  on  the  deep 
grass  under  her  feet.  The  ledge  was 
wide  and  sheltered,  and  there,  curled 
up  by  the  rock,  sat  a  boy  watching  her— 
a  queer,  quick-eyed  little  fellow,  his 
clothes  cut  like  a  man's.  Honora  went 
up  to  him  quickly  and  took  his  hand. 
If  she  too  had  been  a  child,  one  would 
have  suspected  that  she  was  afraid. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  nervous  laugh.  "  I'm  very 
glad.  It  is  Matt,  isn't  it,  from  the  In- 
dian Queen  ?  How  did  you  come  here. 
Matt .?" 

"  Pick-a-back.  I  comes  every  day. 
I  don't  know  you,  though." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  matter.  You'd 
like  me  if  you  did.  What  have  you 
under  your  hat  there  ?" 

She  sat  down  on  a  boulder  beside 
him  as  she  spoke,  glancing  uneasily  into 
the  woods.  She  was  sure  her  uncle 
would  follow,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  she 
had  not  courage  to  go  baclt  into  the 
ghostly  wilderness.  "  What  have  you 
hid  there.  Matt .?" 

Matt  gravely  took  up  his  little  hat, 
and  a  six-inch  handkerchief  spread  out 
carefully  beneath  it,  and  revealed  a  heap 
of  bits  of  yellow  ivory,  shells  and  flakes 
of  shale.  Honora  gathered  up  a  hand- 
ful eagerly. 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


85 


"  What  are  they,  child  ?  Did  you 
gather  tliem  ?  You  are  an  uncanny  little 
body  to  find  such  things  in  the  moun- 
tains. There's  writing  on  them  !"  hold- 
ing the  shale  close  to  her  eyes. 

"He'll  read  it  for  you,"  said  Matt, 
composedly. 

"Who'll  read  it.?  It  was  the  dead 
Indians  who  left  this  letter,  I  think." 

^' Did  they?"  said  Matt,  to  some  one 
behind  her,  and  Honora,  turning,  saw  a 
tall,  powerfully-built  man  standing  on 
tlie  edge  of  the  wilderness  from  which 
she  had  just  escaped. 

"No;  I  do  not  think  the  dead  In- 
dians wrote  it,"  he  said,  quietly  to  her, 
as  if  continuing  some  conversation 
dropped  an  hour  before.  "It  is  the 
print  of  a  fern-leaf  that  grew  a  great 
many  centuries  before  there  were  either 
men  or  living  animals  on  this  continent 
Will  you  let  me  look  at  it  ?" 

As  he  turned  it  over  in  his  palm, 
Honora  ventured  to  take  a  breathless 
survey  of  him.  He  was  clothed  in  a 
workman's  gray  trowsers  and  blouse,  his 
brawny  arms  and  throat  bare ;  a  hammer 
stuck  in  his  belt ;  his  motions  slow  and 
powerful ;  his  looks  and  words  slow, 
thoughtful,  as  one  unused  to  talk  with 
men.  Since  she  was  a  child  Honora 
had  been  reading  the  countenances  of 
men  and  women  with  the  hungry,  un- 
failing instinct  of  a  hound.  It  was  her 
one  knowledge.  But  this  man's  face 
called  to  her  to  halt,  to  show  her  own 
countersign.  Yet  he  did  not  look  at  or 
seem  to  regard  her:  she  had  ample  time 
to  find  what  secret  meaning  she  could 
in  the  heavy  forehead,  the  simple,  steady 
eyes,  the  benignant  mouth,  while  he 
stood  silent  holding  the  fossil  to  the 
light. 

While  he  stood  silent,  the  man,  Dal- 
las, was  waiting  for  her  to  read  him. 
The  moment  he  came  out  from  the 
woods,  though  her  back  was  toward 
him,  he  remembered  her.  While  he 
was  answering  her,  in  his  cool,  lethargic 
tone,  he  remembered  how  she  had  put 
her  hand  once  in  his,  and  said,  "  I  believe 
in  you."  In  his  hand.  He  was  a  con- 
vict then.  Now  he  had  begun  his  new 
life :  he  had  gone  up  on  the  level  where 


she  stood.  He  had  spoken  to  her,  and 
then  waited  to  find  if  she  would  remem- 
ber his  voice.  What  was  she  to  him  } 
Why  need  he,  as  he  turned  over  the 
poor  bit  of  shale,  grow  sick  at  heart  as 
never  before  lest  she  should  recognize 
him  ?  He  had  seen  a  puzzled  glimmer 
of  recollection  on  her  face  when  he  first 
spoke,  but  it  was  gone  when  he  looked 
up  keenly  at  her,  having  waited  long 
enough  for  her  to  identify  him. 

"  I  can  show  you  a  letter  which  the 
Indians  did  leave  for  you  to  read,  if  you 
care  to  see  it,"  he  said  then,  stooping 
to  turn  over  Matt's  heap  of  treasures. 
While  he  was  searching  he  heard  steps 
approaching,  and  a  gray-headed  old  gen- 
tleman, his  overcoat  tightly  buttoned 
over  his  spare  chest,  came  out  from  tlie 
forest,  his  thin  face  flushed  and  anxious. 
"You  frightened  me  greatly,  Nora,"  be 
said,  gently,  not  heeding  the  man. 

Dallas  stood  up,  and,  bowing,  looked 
him  directly  in  the  face.  His  grand- 
father's eyes  would  doubtless  be  more 
vigilant  and  suspicious  than  this  young 
girl's.  If  he  was  to  be  dragged  back 
again  into  that  old  slough  of  disgrace, 
so  be  it !  He  had  thought  over  his 
whole  life  coolly  in  the  last  two  weeks  : 
there  was  no  way  while  he  lived  of  prov- 
ing his  innocence  of  that  crime  of  Lad- 
doun's  for  which  he  had  suffered  the 
penalty,  and  he  had  come  to  regard  it 
as  he  might  a  leprous  taint  which  chance 
had  left  on  him,  and  which  no  virtue  or 
effort  of  his  own  would  affect.  It  was 
the  unrighteous,  damned  spot  that  would 
not  out. 

It  would  be  but  natural  and  right  if 
the  old  man  would  bid  him  begone  from 
the  girl's  presence.  Again  he  waited  in 
silence. 

But  Mr.  Galbraith  returned  his  bow 
courteously,  giving  him  only  the  indiffer- 
ent, civil  scrutiny  which  he  would  bestow 
on  any  stranger.  When  Dallas  spoke, 
too,  there  was  no  interest  beyond  kindly 
attention  in  his  manner  of  listening. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  care  of  Miss 
Dundas,"  he  said,  with  his  formal,  old- 
school  air. 

At  that  Dallas  came  a  step  closer  to 
them.     An  iron  band  seemed  lifted  from 


86 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


his  heart  for  ever  at  that  moment.  His 
dark  blue  eyes  resting  on  their  faces 
without  constraint,  filled  with  a  cordial 
light  new  to  them.  He  was  coming  to 
his  own  slowly,  but  when  the  time  came 
they  would  not  reject  him. 

When  he  spoke,  however,  it  was  in 
his  usual  quiet  tone.  "  I  was  going  to 
show  this  stone  to  Miss  Dundas.  I 
helped  to  open  a  mound  by  the  head- 
waters of  the  creek  yonder  yesterday, 
and  I  found  it  on  the  altar  in  the  mid- 
dle." 

He  handed  Honora  the  stone,  on  which 
were  cut  two  or  three  hieroglyphics  :  her 
uncle  bent  curiously  over  her  shoulder. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  how  ignorant 
I  am  in  such  matters.  You  think  this 
was  deposited  there  by  the  Cherokees  .'' 
Their  hunting-grounds  extended  so  far 
north,  I  believe.  Or  there  was  an  ear- 
lier tribe — the  Mannahoacs :  am  I  right  V 

Dallas  hesitated.  "  I  beheve,"  he 
said,  modestly,  "it  is  supposed  that  the 
race  who  erected  the  river  mounds  were 
extinct  before  any  known  tribes  of  In- 
dians hunted  here.  I  found  bits  of  ivory 
with  the  stone,  which  do  not  belong  to 
this  country." 

"  What  nation  were  they,  then  ?" 

"  I  never  heard  the  name.  I  do  not 
know  what  people  would  have  been  Hkely 
to  cross  the  sea  so  early.  I  know  noth- 
ing of  history,"  with  a  humiliated  look. 

"It  is  less  shameful  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  histories  of  old  nations  than  of  the 
wonders  which  he  under  our  feet,  to 
which  I  plead  guilty,"  said  Mr.  Gal- 
braith.  "  Now,  you,  I  presume,  have 
made  Indian  antiquities  a  study  ?" 

"  No  ;  only  as  they  came  in  my  way. 
I  have  been  grubbing  and  rooting  al- 
wa3'-s,"  with  a  light-hearted  laugh.  "  I 
have  lived  among  plants  and  earths  ;  I 
mean,  when  I  could  choose  my  life,"  a 
sudden  shadow  crossing  his  face.  "As 
for  study,  when  I  found  a  line  in  a  book 
that  helped  me  I  never  forgot  it,  of  course. 
But  I  had  very  few  books." 

If  he  spoke  from  any  morbid  fear  that 
they  would  overrate  him  and  think  him 
an  educated  man,  it  was  unnoticed  by 
Mr.  Galbraith,  who  was  intent  upon  the 
stone.     "  I   have  been  told  that  in  the 


heart  of  those  mounds  was  generally 
deposited,  about  one  skeleton,  a  liver- 
colored  dust — the  ashes  of  burned  bodies 
sacrificed  at  the  chief's  death.  Did  you 
find  it  there .?" 

Galbraith  nodded,  with  a  quick  glance 
at  Honora. 

"You  did  not  tell  me  that?"  she  said. 

"  I  could  not  speak  of  death  to  you. 
I  do  not  know  why,"  he  answered, 
gravely. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  your 
fossils  ?"  asked  her  uncle,  going  over  to 
Matt  and  sitting  down  beside  him,  leav- 
ing them  standing  alone  together. 

Honora  had  laid  down  the  lettered 
stone,  and  stood  looking  at  the  light 
fern-stamp  on  the  shale.  It  seemed  to 
belong  to  that  awful  world  of  dumb  trees 
and  mountains  and  the  eternal  silent  mo- 
tions in  the  sky :  it  was  a  message  from 
long-ago  ages  coming  to  her  direct,  into 
her  commonplace,  every-day  life.  Noth- 
ing like  this  had  ever  touched  her  before. 
neither  from  books  nor  men.  She  looked 
up  at  Dallas,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  in- 
tently on  her  face. 

"  Where  did  you  find  this  ?" 

"  On  the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 
The  coal  is  written  over  with  them." 

"  I  have  seen  it  burned  all  my  life 
and  knew  nothing  of  it.  I  have  ridden 
over  these  Indian  mounds  every  dav. 
/  did  not  know  that  there  were  mes- 
sages from  nations,  whose  very  names 
are  forgotten,  in  them.  They  were  only 
so  much  clay  and  grass  to  me." 

Galbraith  smiled.  But  there  was  no 
smile  on  Honora's  awed  face. 

"And  this  httle  leaf  grew  before  God 
made  man  ?"  touching  it  reverently  with 
her  finger.  "And  you  can  read  the  his- 
tory of  the  Creation  written  on  the  rocks 
as  I  would  in  the  Bible  ?" 

"  It  is  written  more  plainly  here  than 
elsewhere,"  said  Dallas,  with  more  than 
his  usual  effort.  "There  is  a  coal  basin 
beginning  here  and  ending  in  Alabama, 
and  down  its  sides  there  are  marks  of 
the  last  drainage  of  that  great  deep  which 
covered  the  earth  before  the  light  was. 
I  had  read  of  it  before.  I  am  trying  to 
spell  it  out  for  myself  now.  Sometimes 
it  is  as  plain,  even  to  me,  as  the  ebbings 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


87 


of  the  sea  on  shore  when  the  tide  is 
out." 

"  You  are  trying  to  spell  it  out— j^?^ .?" 
She  looked  up  at  him  steadily  a  moment, 
tlien  her  eyes  fell.  Her  mind  was  filled 
with  vague  thoughts  of  the  rarely-remem- 
bered time  when  "  the  evening  and  the 
morning  were  the  first  day,"  and  the 
earth  came  forth  for  ever  out  of  dark- 
ness, written  over  with  the  records  of 
its  past  life.  And  this  poor  stone-cutter 
had  taught  himself  to  spell  those  records 
out !  Now,  Honora  had  tried  to  read 
books  on  Geology,  and  dozed  over  them 
many  a  time.  But  the  heart  and  secresy 
of  the  mountains  was  different  from  a 
printed  page.  And  this  man,  who  seem- 
ed to  her  strangely  akin  to  Nature,  and 
offered  himself  to  her  as  its  interpreter, 
took  a  sudden  place  in  her  heated  fancy 
apart  from  all  other  men. 

All  women  are  alike :  Rosy  Ratthn, 
making  a  Melancthon  to  herself  out  of 
the  first  di\-inity  student  who  is  civil 
to  her,  or  ignorant  Honora,  her  clear, 
thoughtful  face  and  luminous  eyes  down- 
cast before  Dallas,  with  his  gray  shirt 
and  few  odd  bits  of  knowledge.  This 
workman,  she  thought,  full  of  simple 
gravity  and  unconscious  power,  was  fit 
to  live  on  the  hills  and  read  the  testimony 
of  the  rocks.  Something  in  this  fashion 
must  have  looked  and  spoken,  when  the 
world  was  young,  those  •'  mighty  men 
that  were  of  old — men  of  renown."' 

She  looked  up  and  found  again  his 
eyes  intent  on  her  own.  The  blood 
rushed  to  her  face  as  though  he  had 
read  her  thoughts. 

Her  uncle  rose  suddenly.  '>  You  have 
been  very  successful.  How  do  you  find 
time  to  make  your  researches  ?  You 
have  been  working  for  the  last  two  weeks 
with  Evans,  I  think  V 

"  During  part  of  the  day  only.  That 
is  for  money,"  smiling.  "  This  is  my 
true  work." 

'•That  is  true.  Come,  Miss  Dundas, 
it  grows  late.  We  have  to  thank  you 
for  much  pleasure,  sir,"  bowing  formally 
and  turning  toward  the  forest.  Honora 
hesitated.  Was  that  all .?  Was  she  to 
mount  her  horse  and  ride  home  to  sup- 
per just  as  on  other  days  ?     As  if  this 


man  were  a  common  laborer — as  if  the 
mountains  were  not  suddenly  inscribed 
for  her  with  mysterious  meanings,  which 
only  he  could  read  ?  Why  would  her 
uncle  hurry  back  to  the  shallow,  vulgar 
life  at  the  house  ?  Why  could  she  not 
sit  on  the  rocks  for  ever  and  hear  this 
wonderful,  dreadful  story  of  lost  races 
and  lost  ages  ?  She  stood  slowly  tying 
her  hat  while  Mr.  Galbraith  waited  for 
her.  All  that  he  thought  of  this  man 
was  that  he  "worked  for  Evans."  She 
understood  human  nature.  She  never 
had  looked  into  eyes  so  strong  and  pure : 
it  was  clear  to  her  they  never  had  known 
any  secrets  but  those  of  Nature.  When 
she  had  tied  and  re-tied  her  hat,  and  yet 
neither  of  the  men  spoke  a  word  which 
would  lead  to  delay,  she  held  out  the  bit 
of  shale  to  Dallas. 

"  It  is  very  wonderful,"  she  said,  "and 
you  were  kind  to  explain  it  to  me.  I 
know  so  Httle."  She  still  looked  at  the 
fern,  as  if  her  curiosity  were  not  satis- 
fied, cunningly  hoping  he  would  leave  it 
with  her.  There  was  a  little  drawer  of 
keepsakes,  of  which  no  one  knew  but 
herself,  where  she  would  bestow  it. 

But  downright  Dallas  took  it  from 
her,  as  he  supposed  she  meant  him  to 
do.  "I  am  glad  I  could  give  you  any 
pleasure,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  to- 
ward Matt.  But  only  to  straighten 
that  drowsy  urchin's  head  :  then  he  fol- 
lowed Mr.  Galbraith  and  Honora  into 
the  woods.  She  could  hear  his  steady 
step  coming  through  the  crisp  leaves 
behind  her  and  up  to  her  side  at  last, 
just  as  though  he  did  not  know  that  he 
wore  the  workmen's  gray  flannel,  and  that 
there  was  a  great  social  gulf  between 
them.  It  proved  how  difterent  he  was 
from  other  men. 

He  made  no  motion  to  speak  to  her, 
however,  but  walked  silently  beside  her 
until  they  reached  the  open  plateau 
where  her  pony  was  fastened :  stood, 
too,  gravely  on  one  side  while  her  uncle 
assisted  her  to  mount,  and  bade  him 
good-bye.  Dallas  bowed  to  them  both 
without  a  word,  and  watched  them  go 
down  the  steep  path,  Mr.  Galbraith  cau- 
tiously leading  the  pony.  When  they 
were  going  round  the  spur  of  the  moun- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


tain  which  would  shut  him  out  of  sight, 
Honora  gave  a  quick  glance  backward, 
and  saw  the  gray,  powerful  figure  still 
motionless  on  the  ledge,  his  face  turned 
toward  her.  As  she  rode  on  she  puz- 
zled herself  in  vain.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  the  strange  look  he  gave  her 
at  parting,  different  from  any  which  had 
ever  fallen  on  her  ?  There  was  nothing 
in  it  which  could  bring  a  blush  to  her 
cheek,  yet  her  blood  was  stirred  as  by 
some  uncontrollable  instinct.  What 
could  this  man  ask  of  her  ?  It  was  a 
wistful,  questioning  look  which  an  exile 
might  give  when  the  light  of  his  home 
began  to  shine  upon  him  far  off.  It 
was  as  if  he  claimed  his  own. 

Mr.  Galbraith,  meanwhile,  had  mount- 
ed, and  they  cantered  briskly  down  to- 
ward the  valley.  The  sun  was  near  its 
setting,  and  a  ride  of  two  or  three  hours 
was  yet  before  them.  But  Honora's 
usual  chatter  was  silenced  ;  her  uncle's 
efforts  at  conversation  meeting  the  hope- 
lessly unanswering  face  and  monosyllables 
which  generally  baffled  those  of  Mr. 
Dour.  Mr.  Galbraith  looked  at  her  at- 
tentively. 

"  We  will  be  late  to-night,"  he  said  : 
"  Colonel  Pervis  will  have  reached  his 
last  rubber,  and  Mr.  Dour  have  talked 
your  aunt  to  sleep." 

Honora  pushed  back  her  hair  im- 
patiently. "  Such  trifling  wearies  one 
with  the  world!"  she  broke  out.  "To 
think  of  men — men,  spending  whole  days 
tossing  bits  of  painted  card  about,  or 
chopping  logic  about  words  !" 

"Why,  what  should  they  do,  Nora?" 

"  Do  ?  If  I  were  not  a  woman,  I  would 
know  first  what  the  world  is  which  we 
live  in.  It  should  not  be  so  much  sand 
and  coal  to  me,  worth  so  many  dollars 
an  acre.  Why  I  used  to  think  the  In- 
dian chiefs  were  heroes,  uncle,  who 
hunted  and  fished  over  these  forests, 
compared  to  our  traders  and  shop- 
keepers. But  suppose  a  man  held  in 
his  hand  the  key  to  the  great  earth  it- 
self, to  its  mines  of  gold  and  silver,  and 
could  read  the  countless  rocks,  with  the 
messages  from  all  the  past  centuries 
written  on  them  ;  suppose  he  knew  the 
secrets  of  all  the  herbs  and  trees,  and 


could  draw  health  or  death  from  them. 
That  is  a  life  for  a  man,  I  think." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  so  complete 
a  theory  of  life  made  out,"  dryly. 

"That  seems  to  me  a  great  work  fo 
a  great  man." 

"Honora!  Of  whom  are  you  think- 
ing ?" 

She  started  and  colored,  but  did  not 
look  at  him.  "Of  Colonel  Pei-vis  and 
Mr.  Dour,"  she  said,  innocently,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "and  of  the  way  in 
which  they  waste  their  lives.  It  is  very 
uncharitable,  but  you  suggested  it,  uncle, 
did  you  not  V 

*        *        ***** 

Dallas  Galbraith,  standing  on  the 
ledge  of  the  mountain,  watched  them 
until  they  were  out  of  sight.  He  did 
not  move  even  then,  looking  with  his 
cool,  steady  gaze  into  the  darkening 
valley  below.  It  seemed  to  him  a  great 
chamber  of  peace  lighted  by  the  cheerful 
crimson  sunset,  the  moon  hanging  pure 
and  far,  a  mere  ghost  of  light,  in  the  Mae 
distance.  The  vast,  tranquil  change  of 
day  into  night,  the  silence,  the  brooding 
calm,  might  have  made  some  time  his 
every-day  life,  so  simple  and  native  to 
him  was  it  all.  It  was  all  homelike  :  the 
melancholy  sough  of  the  wind  through 
the  far  ravines,  the  rustle  of  an  occa- 
sional insect  in  the  leaves  underfoot,  the 
gurgle  of  some  mountain  spring.  He 
could  see  the  workmen  from  the  quarry 
going  down  a  path  which  wound  round 
a  far  hill-side — so  far  that  they  looked 
like  lonely  gray  shadows.  One  or  two 
of  them  saw  him,  and  waved  their  caps 
to  him  good-night.  He  was  a  favorite 
already  with  them  all.  Dallas  waved 
energetically  until  they  were  quite  out 
of  sight.  No  one  knew  what  friends 
were  worth  untH  they  had  lived  without 
them  ! 

But  it  was  not  the  sough  of  the  wind 
or  the  good-night  of  the  men  that  he 
was  waiting  for.  Hark  !  The  wind  was 
against  him,  but  surely  that  was  the 
echo  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  valley 
road  !  Again  :  and  then  all  was  silent, 
and  she  was  actually  gone.  The  sound 
had  brought  the  cordial  strength  into  his 
eyes  again.     It  was  noticeable   that  tlie 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


89 


dress  and  wealth  which  had  risen  up  as 
a  barrier  between  Dallas  and  his  mother 
never  suggested  themselves  to  him  in 
connection  with  Honora.  Even  to 
Dour's  far-off,  trained,  critical  eye,  there 
was  a  singular  native  freshness  in  the 
girl  which  brought  to  his  mind  the  bell 
of  a  wild  flower.  To  Dallas  the  wild 
flower  was  near  and  real :  its  perfume 
came  home  to  him  as  did  the  silence  and 
calm  of  the  mountains — a  part  of  him- 
self. 

What  more  the  casual  meeting  with 
her  had  been  to  him,  Dallas  was  begin- 
ning, perhaps,  now  that  he  was  left 
alone,  to  spell  out  to  himself.  He  sat 
down,  leaning  against  the  rock,  his  hands 
cJasped  over  his  head  in  his  old  fashion, 
and  was  quiet  a  long  time.  Then  he 
got  up  with  a  composed,  resolute  face, 
like  a  man  who  saw  his  way  at  last 
through  a  tangled  wood.  Some  sudden 
fancy  seemed  to  strike  him,  for,  with  a 
half  smile,  he  went  to  the  face  of  the 
gray  rock,  and  taking  his  hatchet  and 
chisel  from  his  belt,  cut  the  date — the 
day  of  the  month  and  year,  adding  neither 
name  nor  initials.  Then  putting  the 
tools  away  he  went  back  to  Matt,  who 
was  stretched  on  the  ground  asleep. 

"Come,  old  fellow,"  said  Dallas,  lift- 
ing him,  "  the  day's  late,  and  we  have  a 
great  deal  of  work  to  do — a  great  deal 
of  work." 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

The  afternoon  service  was  over,  and 
the  sunny  little  country  church-yard  was 
filled  with  groups  of  the  neighbors,  stop- 
ping under  the  cedars,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  exchange  bulletins  of  health 
before  they  took  their  way  across  the 
lonely  fields  or  mounted  into  the  clumsy 
eld  wagons  and  carriages  that  walled  in 
the  fence.  Honora,  who  had  stopped  to 
talk  to  the  sexton  while  he  locked  the 
door  of  the  little  stone  church,  hurried 
down  to  her  uncle,  who  waited  for  her 
by  the  gate.  They  were  both  bigoted 
Episcopalians ;  fasted  rigorously,  went 
to  church  through  rain  or  snow,  to  the 


great  spiritual  satisfaction  of  Madam 
Galbraith,  who,  poor  old  heathen  !  hatl 
not  been  there  but  once  in  two  years, 
and  then  had  scandalized  the  congrega- 
tion by  lecturing  the  rector,  on  the  porch, 
about  his  drowsy  sermon,  until  both  she 
and  he  were  in  a  passion. 

"The  sun  is  so  warm,  my  dear,  that 
I  thought  you  would  prefer  to  walk," 
Mr.  Galbraith  said,  as  she  came  up.  "  I 
told  John  to  drive  on." 

"I'm  glad  of  it.  Mrs.  Duffield  rode, 
of  course?  I  believe  she  thinks  it  is 
coarse  for  a  young  girl  to  tramp  and 
hve  out  of  doors,  as  I  do,"  anxiously. 

"  Does  she  1  Yes ;  she  is  gone  ;  Miss 
Gerty,  too.  Mr.  Dour  watched  for  you, 
but  changed  his  mind." 

"And  went  with  Gerty  ?"  with  a  know- 
ing nod.      "That  was  right." 

They  stopped  now  and  then  to  speak 
to  some  of  the  groups  of  stolid-looking 
men,  asserting  the  day  in  long-tailed 
coats  and  broad  expanse  of  shirt-front, 
and  gayly-dressed  women,  with  their 
books  in  their  hands — a  bit  of  mint  put 
in  to  mark  the  place.  Then,  turning 
from  the  main  road,  they  took  their  way 
down  the  hillside,  the  cool  afternoon 
wind  fresh  in  their  faces.  jMr.  Galbraith 
fell  into  his  usual  leisurely  gait  in  these 
mountain  walks,  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him;  a  youthful,  keen  enjoyment 
of  hfe  coming  out  on  the  thin,  sensitive 
face,  despite  its  sober  framing  of  gray 
hair  and  moustache — an  expression 
which  belonged  alone  to  his  out-door  life, 
as  Honora  knew.  Nothing  escaped  his 
slow  blue  eye.  The  warm  light  and 
chasing  veils  of  shadow  on  the  bright 
bronzed  hill-slopes :  the  dreamy  brown 
vapor  of  smoke  hanging  over  the  distant 
village,  glowing  into  ruby  where  the  sun 
touched  it:  the  two  or  three  cows  stand- 
ing about  a  quiet  Httle  pool  in  a  shaded 
mountain  bight.  He  did  not  point  any- 
thing out  to  Honora:  she  did  not  see 
the  shadows  or  smoke  with  his  eyes. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  broke  the 
long  silence.  "Honora,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly, "there  is  a  man  who  has  a  great 
work,  according  to  your  theory,  coming 
toward  us — Pritchard.  He  is  a  geologist 
by  profession." 


90 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Miss  Dundas  ran  her  eye  slightingly 
over  the  lean,  bewhiskered  little  man, 
and  remarked,  coolly,  that  some  people 
made  prose  out  of  anything. 

'•  He  is  a  very  practical,  useful  fellow — 
Doctor  Pritchard,"  continued  the  old 
gentleman.  "His  summer  vacation  is 
over,  and  he  goes  away  next  week  to 
New  Mexico." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  this  plant,"  pulling  a  weed  to 
pieces,  impatiently.  "I've  been  trying 
to  study  botany  lately,  and  I  never  can 
tell  the  stamens  from  the  pistils." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Pritchard  is 
attached  to  an  exploration  party  sent 
out  by  government.  Something  about 
a  railroad,  I  believe.  But  he  will  report 
on  the  geology  and  flora  of  the  country. 
Here  he  is." 

Miss  Dundas,  after  a  shy  bow,  went 
back  to  her  weed,  while  Doctor  Pritchard 
shook  and  reshook  her  uncle's  hand. 
He  had  the  etiipressement  of  a  French 
dancing-master;  besides,  he  meant  to 
go  home  with  them  to  dine.  Mr.  Gal- 
braith's  wines  were  famous. 

"Would  you,  would  you,  my  dear  sir," 
in  a  fervent  whisper,  "allow  me  to  pre- 
sent a  friend  to  Miss  Dundas  and  your- 
self? The  gentleman  walking  with 
Squire  Poole,  yonder ;  handsome,  stout — 
yes.  He  is  most  anxious  to  form  your 
acquaintance :  one  might  as  well  not  be 
presented  at  court  abroad,  you  know, 
as —  Colonel  Laddoun,  it  is.  One  of 
those  clever,  generous  fellows  whom 
everybody  knows — yes.  Met  him  in 
California — lucky  dog  there;  quite  a 
favorite  in  San  Francisco,  Miss  Dundas  ; 
devoted  to  the  ladies.  You've  no  ob- 
jections ?" 

In  a  few  moments  they  came  up  to 
Laddoun,  and  he  was  presented.  He 
was  unusually  silent,  however,  to  the 
disappointment  of  his  friend ;  his  oily 
fluency  of  words  and  manner  seemed 
chilled  and  stiffened  after  the  first  hasty 
glance  at  the  old  gentleman's  quiet 
face. 

"He  has  Dallas'  eyes.  Which  I  never 
could  understand — curse  him !"  was  his 
secret  thought,  as  he  stepped  back  by 
Honora,   and   made  one   or  two   heavy 


efforts  to  fall  into  an  easy  conversation 
with  her.  He  grew  silent  in  a  moment, 
however,  catching  the  drift  of  the  Doctor's 
chatter. 

"  I  go  this  week — yes.  My  stay  here 
has  been  delightful,  socially.  And  your 
country  is  rich  in  minerals — unlimited 
wealth  under  your  feet,  sir !  An  AH 
Baba's  cave,  if  you  but  knew  the  magic 
words  to  unlock  it.  By  the  way,  I  am 
taking  a  young  man  from  here  with  me 
as  assistant.  One  of  your  neighbors. 
A  fellow  that  I  met  up  in  the  mountains, 
in  the  stone-quarry — yes." 

Honora  dropped  her  plant,  and,  being 
tired,  apparently,  came  a  step  forward 
and  put  her  hand  in  her  uncle's  arm. 

"  Evans  mentioned  the  man  to  me," 
pursued  the  little  man,  jerkily  adjusting 
his  spectacles,  "and  I  fell  in  afterward 
with  him  at  the  opening  of  a  mound  up 
on  Indian  Creek.  A  remarkable  case 
of  a  one-idea'd  man,  sir.  The  only  peo- 
ple who  amount  to  anything,  by-the-bye. 
This  fellow  is  a  born  naturalist." 

"  My  niece  and  I  met  him  near  the 
quarry,  I  think.  I  doubt  not  that  it  is 
the  same  person.  You  remember,  Hon- 
ora .?" 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"  Do  you  take  him  with  you  as  a  la- 
borer ?"  questioned  Mr.  Galbraith,  po- 
litely continuing  the  subject  which  so 
keenly  interested  his  companion. 

"No — as  an  assistant.  In  an  inferior 
position,  of  course.  But  he  will  rise. 
He  will  be  of  more  assistance  to  me  than 
a  dozen  purblind  coUege-bred  fellows, 
who  have  their  opinions  cut  and  dried 
for  them.  This  young  man  has  had  but 
few  opportunities,  I  judge  ;  only  studied 
the  A,  B,  C  of  science,  as  I  may  say. 
But  he  has  the  eye  of  a  hawk  and  a 
marvelous  memory.  Evans  suggested 
to  me  to  take  him.  I  was  surprised 
that  the  fellow  had  so  much  discern- 
ment ;  surprised — yes." 

"  It  will  be  of  advantage  to  him  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Galbraith. 

"It  will  be  an  education  such  as  rarely 
offers  itself  to  any  man  !"  emphatically. 
"  I  will  extend  my  researches  through 
South  America,  in  all  probability.  We 
may  be  gone  one,  two,  three  years — " 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


91 


<»  So  long  ?"  said  the  old  man,  with  a 
quiclc  breath.  "  I  thought  the  expedition 
would  return  in  the  spring  ?" 

"  I  spoke  of  my  own  plans,  sir,"  loftily. 
« I  was  about  to  say  that,  if  this  young 
man  answers  my  expectation,  I  will  in- 
duce him  to  accompany  me  after  I  sepa- 
rate from  the  government  survey.  There 
is  something  in  the  boy  which  has  curi- 
ously interested  me." 

"  It's  an  old  trick  of  his  !"  growled 
Laddoun,  under  his  breath,  adding,  awk- 
wardly, when  he  saw  them  look  at  him, 
"  I  used  to  know  the  man  you  speak  of 
Strangers  usually  fancied  him." 

"Yes,  there  is  something  very  genial  and 
attractive  in  him,"  rejoined  the  Doctor. 

« I  thought  you  were  a  stranger  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  Colonel  Lad- 
doun .?"  said  Mr.  Galbraith,  looking 
steadily  at  him. 

Laddoun's  portly  body  moved  uncom- 
fortably under  the  scrutiny  of  the  strange, 
yet  familiar  eyes.  He  began  to  toy  with 
the  heavy  chain  hanging  across  his 
waistcoat.  "  I  am  a  stranger  here. 
But  I  knew  Galbraith  when  he  was  a 
boy." 

The  old  gentleman's  quiet  gaze  rested 
on  him  for  a  moment  after  he  had  fin- 
ished speaking,  but  he  made  him  no 
other  reply. 

"  Galbraith  ?  'Pon  my  word,"  broke 
in  Doctor  Pritchard,  "  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  the  young  man's  name  was  the  same 
as  yours.  It  is  so  common,  hereabouts, 
that  it  did  not  attract  my  attention." 

"  It  is  common,"  said  Mr.  Galbraith. 
"  All  branches  from  the  same  family  tree." 

They  had  reached  a  stile  where  the 
path  struck  aside  to  the  village.  Doctor 
Pritchard  stopped  and  hesitated. 

"Well,  Colonel  Laddoun,  here  is  our 
road.  We  must  bid  our  friends  good- 
evening,  I  presume." 

"Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr. 
Galbraith,  promptly,  Pritchard's  visions 
of  roast  turkey  and  the  Dour  wines  van- 
ishing into  air.  "  Come  to  us  to-mor- 
row, Doctor.  Madam  Galbraith  es- 
pecially desires  to  see  you." 

After  they  were  alone  he  walked  more 
slowly,  to  accommodate  his  pace  to  Hon- 
ora,  whose  step  was  flagging:  it  seemed 


to  have  lost  suddenly  its  accustomed 
elastic  vigor.  He  fancied,  too,  when  he 
glanced  anxiously  down  at  her,  that  her 
dark  eyes  were  more  unintelligible  than 
usual.  He  did  not  disturb  her,  how- 
ever, and  it  was  not  until  they  had 
nearly  reached  the  house  that  she  spoke, 
stopping  at  the  very  stile  where  Galbraith 
and  Lizzy  had  stood. 

"New  Mexico  is  a  long  way  from 
Virginia  ?" 

"Yes,  Nora." 

"  I  suppose  Doctor  Pritchard  and  his 
jDarty  will  never  return  ?" 

"Doctor  Pritchard  has  no  tie  here, 
you  know.  He  was  making  an  examina- 
tion of  the  Kanawha  Salines,  and  came 
from  there  up  to  the  mountains." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  She  drew  a  long 
breath  after  a  while.  "It  is  a  good 
thing  to  be  able  to  go  out  in  the  world 
to  find  work  and  knowledge — to  find 
people  who  would  be  friends  to  you  if 
you  knew  them  better.  It  is  tiresome — 
tiresome  to  be  a  woman,  uncle  !" 

He  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  brown 
hair  and  stroked  it  for  his  only  answer. 
The  bent  head  was  so  dear  to  him,  and, 
do  what  he  would,  his  hand  so  weak  to 
guard  it  ! 

Laddoun  swaggered  smoking  along- 
side of  the  little  professor  in  silence. 
It  needed  a  walk  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
and  two  or  three  cigars  to  restore  his 
usual  complacent  tone.  Then  the  bitter 
froth  ran  off.  "  I  don't  fancy  your  Gal- 
braiths,  sir  !  They're  ill-bred — ill-bred ! 
It  is  always  the  case  with  your  petty 
country  aristocracy !  What  the  devil 
did  the  old  fellow  mean  by  looking  at 
me  as  if  I  was  a  thief?  Does  he  never 
meet  a  gentleman,  that  he  must  scan 
him  from  head  to  foot  as  he  would  a 
bullock  ?" 

"You're  too  sensitive,  Colonel,"  laugh- 
ed Pritchard.  "  That  hot.  Southern  blood 
of  yours  is  always  too  ready  to  take  fire. 
You  are  a  Southerner,  aren't  you  ?" 

"  I — I  am  pro-slavery.  To  the  back- 
bone. But  as  for  your  Galbraiths,  they 
had  better  take  care  how  they  insult 
George  Laddoun.  I  have  a  fact  or  two 
in  reserve  for  them  that  would  make 
them  wince  to  the  marrow." 


92 


WINGS. 


"  You  mean  old  James  Galbraith  here  ? 
A  fact  in  reserve  ?"  with  an  astonished 
peer  over  his  spectacles. 

"Ay:  this  old  fellow.  But  let  the 
matter  drop:  Til  keep  my  own  counseh 
So  you're  going  to  make  the  fortune  of 
that  boy  up  at  the  quarry  ?" 

"  No,  not  precisely.  But  I  may  put 
him  in  the  way  to  make  his  own." 

"So  ?"  caressing  his  moustache  thought- 
fully. "Well,  good-evening,  Doctor," 
with  a  sudden  start ;  "  I  have  an  engage- 
ment which  I  had  nearly  forgotten." 

"  I  wish  you  had  remembered  it  ten 
minutes  sooner,"  thought  Pritchard,  as 
he  strode  off ;  "I  would  not  have  lost  my 
invitation  to  dinner.  Well !  well !  Now 
I  thought  Laddoun  and  the  Galbraiths 
were  people  just  suited  to  each  other  !" 

Laddoun,  while  his  companion  went 
on  slowly  cogitating  to  the  village,  had 
stopped  at  a  little  farm-house  by  the 
way.  "  Lend  me  your  fast  trotter, 
Billy,"  he  said  to  a  young  fellow  who 
lounged  out — one  of  his  bar-room  chums. 
"  I  want  to  reach  the  Indian  Queen  be- 
fore night-fall :  can  she  make  it  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  need  not  ride  her  hard, 
either,  to  do  it.  Don't  spoil  her  paces, 
Colonel." 

"Oh,  Lord  bless  you,  no!  It's  not 
this  nag's  paces  that  I  mean  to  spoil," 
as  he  mounted  and  patted  the  mare's 


black  neck.  He  rode  steadily  through 
the  mountain  roads  until  the  afternoon 
had  changed  into  dusk  and  night  began 
slowly  to  fall.  When  he  caught  sight 
at  last  of  the  little  stone  inn,  its  windows 
twinkling  cheerfully  far  ahead  of  him, 
he  pressed  his  horse  fiercely,  as  if, 
through  long  brooding  over  his  disap- 
pointment, his  blood  was  fairly  up. 

Dallas  Galbraith,  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  Httle  porch  in  the 
twilight,  hstening  occasionally  to  the 
Sunday  evening  gossip  of  Peggy  and  the 
boy,  caught  the  first  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  echoing  down  the  mountain  side, 
and  pointed  out  to  Matt  the  fiery  sparks 
struck  out  on  the  darkness,  as  any  one 
whose  heart  is  full  and  happy  will  notice 
and  be  amused  by  a  trifle. 

But  when  the  black  horse  and  his 
rider  came  nearer,  Dallas  stopped  his 
slow  saunter  and  looked  at  them  in 
silence.  Then  he  went  up  to  the 
porch. 

"  I  am  going  up  the  road,"  he  said 
quietly  to  Peggy  :  "  I  do  not  know  when 
I  will  be  back.  Good-night,"  taking 
Matt's  hand,  thrust  through  the  railing, 
"  God  bless  you,  Httle  fellow  !"  For  he 
knew  that  the  Luck  which  had  been 
against  him  all  his  life  was  upon  him  at 
last  in  visible  shape,  and  went  to  meet 
it  face  to  face. 


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PART     V. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

COLONEL  LADDOUN,  seeing  the 
figure  coming  toward  him  from  the 
inn,  pulled  up  the  mare,  and  sat  stiffly 
erect  in  the  saddle.  This  fellow  should 
stand,  like  the  beggar  that  he  was,  at 
his  stirrup.  This  fellow — whom  he  had 
taken  from  the  dunghill,  and  to  whom 
family  and  rank  and  an  estate  like  a 
principality  came  and  waited  until  he 
should  choose  to  claim  them.  Luck 
might  be  on  his  side,  but  he  should  see 
that  Laddoun  was  still  master. 

He  swelled,  he  puffed,  he  played  with 
Bill  Thorp's  riding-whip  as  though  it 
had  been  a  sceptre,  his  red  lips  growing 
redder,  and  his  black  eyes  arrogant  and 
defiant  under  the  thick  lids,  as  he  watch- 
ed Dallas  coming  nearer. 

The  twilight  was  distinct  enough  for 
him  to  see  him  clearly.  By  George  ! 
how  pale  the  fellow  was  !  Five  years 
of  living  on  prison-broth  and  stewed 
cocoa-shells.  And  Dallas  used  to  dearly 
love  a  good  square  meal,  and  would  share 
it  with  even  a  nigger  !  The  boy  had  hard 
lines  to  pull,  after  all !  Laddoun  burst 
into  a  good-humored  laugh,  his  face 
softening  as  he  glanced  downward  over 
the  baggily-clothed  figure.  Poor  Dall ! 
Where  had  he  picked  up  that  coat  ?   No- 


body with  gentlemanly  instincts  could  be 
tricked  into  making  such  a  guy  of  him- 
self;  but  Galbraith  was  always  ready  to 
be  duped  like  a  child  ;  and  as  for  dress — 
but,  poor  devil,  it  was  not  his  fault  if  he 
had  no  fine  perceptions. 

He  grew  uneasy  after  that  as  he  wait- 
ed. Not  with  remorse  that  he  himself 
had  laid  down  the  hard  lines  for  the 
boy's  life,  nor  with  gratitude  because  the 
lad  had  put  out  his  hand  to  save  him 
from  the  gulf  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
But  he  did  remember,  with  a  sudden 
spasm  of  the  heart  under  his  velvet 
waistcoat,  how  Dall  used  to  admire  his 
fashionable  clothes,  his  bow,  his  princely 
manner — what  a  slave  the  fellow  had 
been  to  him  from  sheer  affection.  "  He 
loved  me  like  a  dog — Dallas.  And  be 
never  made  me  ridiculous  trying  to  copy 
me,  either,  like  that  idiot,  McGill  !" 
"  He  was  within  half-a-dozen  yards  of 
him  now.  It  was  the  same  old  Dall ! 
The  steady,  loping  gait:  mouth  and  nose 
still  too  big  for  the  man's  face  as  they 
had  been  for  the  boy's :  the  same  inscru- 
table expression.  A  thousand  remem- 
brances swarmed  up  unbidden  at  the 
sight  of  him — of  the  journeys,  the  fun, 
the  scrapes  they  had  shared  in  the  long, 
every-day  life  together :  of  Lizzy,  who  had 
been  fond  of  the  bov.     Laddoun's  face 


94 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


kindled  into  that  affectionate,  generous 
glo\\  which  his  admirers  so  well  knew. 
He  got  down  with  a  certain  hesitation 
from  his  horse,  holding  one  hand  out  while 
the  other  rested  on  the  saddle,  as  Gal- 
braith  came  swift-ly  toward  him.  He 
stopped  short,  and  they  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment silent  in  the  twilight,  intently  re- 
garding each  other. 

Laddoun  broke  into  a  loud,  uncertain 
laugh:  '-Why,  Dallas,  old  fellow!  I— 
I'm  devilish  glad  to  see  you!  Ton  my 
soul  I  am.  It  makes  me  feel  like  a 
woman.     Shake  hands?" 

Galbraith  glanced  from  the  florid,  ex- 
cited face  down  to  the  fat,  outstretched 
hand,  but  made  no  other  reply. 

"You  don't  mean  to  bluiT  me  off?  As 
you  please :  George  Laddoun  never  offers 
his  hand  twice,"  drawing  back  haughtily. 
He  could  not  comprehend  the  silence  of 
the  other  man,  nor  the  tense  compres- 
sion about  his  nostrils  and  jaws.  Was 
he  afraid  ?     Or  did  he  mean  mischief.-' 

"Now,  Dallas,  you're  keeping  malice," 
he  broke  out,  frankly.  "There's  nothing 
of  that  in  me.  I've  got  no  account  of 
old  grudges.  I  came  here  to  do  you  a 
kindness.  I  came  clear  from  California 
to  be  on  hand  when  you  got  free,  and 
give  you  a  helping  hand.  I  followed 
you  out  here  for  that.  George  Lad- 
doun's  not  the  sort  to  forget  old  friends. 
I'd  have  walked  the  streets  of  Albany 
with  you  in  your  prison-clothes,  and 
knocked  down  any  man  who  insulted 
you." 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"  Then  you  need  not  stand  off,  weigh- 
ing and  measuring  me.  You'll  find  me 
the  same  jolly  brick — old  Laddoun.  More 
heart  than  head  about  me,  as  every  body 
knows.  Ton  my  soul,  the  sight  of  you 
brought  up  things  I've  not  thought  of 
for  years  !  There  was  Lizzy — now. 
Well,"  after  a  moment's  pause,  "my 
taste  in  women  has  changed,  of  course. 
But  there's  nothing  like  love's  young 
dream.  '  'Twas  odor  fled,  As  soon  as 
shed.'  But  you  never  cared  for  the 
sex."  He  felt,  as  he  rattled  over  this 
uneasily,  that  his  hold  had  slipped  from 
tlie  lad,  never  to  be  regained  :  his  old 
dupe  stood  farther  outside  and  apart  from 


him  than  any  other  man,  and  the  know- 
ledge cost  Laddoun,  who  was  everybody's 
friend,  a  sentimental,  unaffected  pang. 
He  hesitated,  then  cried  impetuously: 

"  Come,  Galbraith,  there's  my  hand. 
Friend  or  enemy,  as  you  choose.  You 
know  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you,  George  Laddoun. 
But  keep  back.  Don't  touch  me,"  draw- 
ing back  as  the  other  approached,  his 
hands  clasped  tightly  behind  him. 

Laddoun  was  startled  out  of  his  per- 
petual applause  and  patting  of  himself: 
he  took  a  quick,  keen  survey  of  Gal- 
braith. There  was  a  sudden  qualm  of 
fear  in  his  soggy,  dull  heart — something 
in  the  face  before  him  reminded  him  that 
the  man  had  had  five  years  of  solitude 
in  which  "to  think  it  over." 

The  road  was  narrow  and  ran  along 
the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Galbraith  was 
the  more  athletic  and  better  built  of  the 
two.  He  had  not  spoken  a  word  of  the 
WTong  done  to  him ;  and  that  looked 
dangerous. 

"  If  I  thrust  my  friendship  on  him,  it 
will  let  loose  the  devil  that  he's  trying 
to  hold  down,"  the  Colonel  judged 
shrewdly  in  the  paralyzed  instant  that 
followed.  Then  he  put  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup  and  slowly  swung  himself  heavily 
up,  keeping  a  guarded  watch  on  Dallas. 
There  was  an  aggrieved  sense  of  injury 
in  his  manner.  He  was  quite  conscious 
that  all  the  good  feeling  which  had 
brought  him  from  California  had  been 
thrown  back  in  his  face  :  he  was  not  so 
conscious,  to  do  him  justice,  of  his  dis- 
appointment in  his  plans  of  leeching  the 
heir  of  the  Galbraiths,  though  the  dis- 
appointment was  there. 

Up  on  the  mare's  back,  he  looked  about 
at  the  darkening  twilight  and  down  at 
the  pale,  controlled  face  of  the  man  lean- 
ing back  against  the  rocks,  as  from  a  van- 
tage-ground of  safety.  It  was  but  a 
boy's  credulous  face  after  all  —  never 
would  be  anything  else  :  there  was  not 
a  line  of  shrewdness  or  self-confidence 
in  it. 

Laddoun  pressed  his  horse  closer  to- 
ward him.  "Keep  back  from  30U,  eh? 
It's  on  the  cards,"  half  closing  his  eyes, 
speculatively,  "  whether  I  leave  you  or 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


95 


not  to  shift  for  yourself,  Galbraith.  I 
can  make  or  unmake  you  as  I  please," 
measuring  his  words  deliberately.  "  I 
can  bring  you  in  heir  of  this  very  land 
you  stand  on,  or  I  can  speak  a  word  that 
would  cause  your  own  mother  to  cast 
you  off.  You've  marked  out  a  straight 
road  for  yourself.''  Very  well!  Do  you 
think  Pritchard  would  take  you  as  his 
companion  if  I  choose  to  tell  him  what 
you  are  ?  Do  you  think  that  stupid 
Beck  and  his  wife  would  keep  you  un- 
der their  roof — let  their  boy  go  wander- 
ing about  with  a  jail-bird  .^  You  cannot 
wash  yourself  clear  of  that." 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  Galbraith 
was  motionless.  At  the  mention  of  the 
child  he  had  only  clasped  his  hands  more 
closely  behind  him.  the  fingers  strained 
until  they  were  bloodless,  and,  turning 
from  Laddoun,  fixed  his  eyes  steadily 
on  the  ground. 

The  fellow  was  insensate  as  a  stone  ! 

"  I  hold  you  and  your  fate  there,  sir — 
there  !"  cried  Laddoun,  loudly,  holding 
out  his  soft,  open  hand  and  patting  it 
with  his  forefinger.  "  You  may  scheme 
and  work  to  build  yourself  up  as  you 
please.  But  if  you  throw  off  George  Lad- 
doun like  a  pauper  and  scoff  at  his  friend- 
ship, it  will  cost  me  no  more  than  the  clos- 
ing of  my  palm  to  crush  you  like  a  worm." 

Galbraith  made  a  sudden  step  forward. 
Standing  in  front  of  the  horse's  breast, 
he  grasped  the  bridle.  Whatever  con- 
trol he  had  held  over  himself  was  gone  : 
his  face  was  set  and  his  eyes  shone  like 
those  of  a  wild  beast.  But  his  voice 
was  curiously  quiet : 

"  I  never  mean  to  punish  you  for  what 
you  did  to  me.  I  let  that  go.  But  I 
am  going  to  lead  a  new  life.  It  is  in  my 
own  hands,  and  I  warn  you  that  it  will 
be  safer  not  to  stand  in  my  way." 

"  I'd  have  been  your  friend,  if  you  had 
chosen,"  sullenly.  "You're  the  first  man 
that  ever  chose  George  Laddoun  as  an 
enemy.  You  never  can  shake  me  off  now. 
I'll  show  you  to-morrow  what  your  new 
life  is  worth." 

Galbraith  pressed  closer  on  him. 
"Then  I'll  be  free  of  you!"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  I  am  a  better  man  than  you. 
I  count  it  no  more  crime  to  put  you  out 


of  my  way  than  a  snake  that  bit  me. 
Look  out,  Laddoun  !" 

His  sudden  onslaught  wrenched  a  half 
whine,  half  cry  from  the  Colonel:  he  grew 
deadly  pale  as  he  wheeled  his  horse  about, 
throwing  Galbraith  on  the  ground.  " The 
boy  is  mad,"  urging  the  powerful  beast 
full  on  him.  "  I  could  ride  you  down 
like  a  dog.  And  I  am  armed.  Stand 
back  !  Stand  back,  I  say !"  He  brought 
down  the  revolver,  covering  Galbraith  s 
breast. 

Dallas  stood  one  instant,  watchful  as 
a  panther.  "  If  you've  a  pistol,  you  are 
even  with  me,"  he  muttered,  and  made 
the  spring.  Catching  the  bridle  close 
by  the  horse's  nostrils,  he  dragged  her 
by  sheer  strength  across  the  road  to  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  and  held  her  there. 
The  brute's  terrible  cry  and  Laddoun's 
yell  rose  together :  her  pawing  hind-hoofs 
struck  the  pebbles  down  into  the  chasm. 
In  that  moment  Laddoun,  leaning  for- 
ward, uncocked  his  pistol  and  threw  it 
on  the  ground. 

"I'd  not  V\\\ yon,  Dallas  !"  he  gasped. 

Galbraith  glanced  at  the  pistol  lying 
at  his  feet,  and  up  at  the  mare  and  her 
rider,  the  insanity  going  out  of  his  eyes, 
like  a  man  from  whom  a  physical  spasm 
is  passing.  He  pulled  the  horse  up  on 
level  ground  again  with  difficulty,  for  the 
strength  given  by  his  fury  was  gone,  and 
held  it  steady  until  the  Colonel,  trem- 
bling and  sopping  the  sweat  from  his 
face,  had  slowly  alighted  and  crept  across 
the  road  to  where  the  pistol  lay.  Gal- 
braith did  not  heed  him  :  he  stood  me- 
chanically stroking  down  the  shivering, 
terrified  animal. 

"  I  am  the  worse  devil  of  the  two. 
There's  not  been  a  day  for  years  when 
I  would  not  have  been  glad  to  see  him 
dead.  And  he — spared  my  life — spared 
my  life." 

Laddoun  picked  up  the  pistol  and 
brushed  it  on  his  sleeve  with  an  odd 
chuckle. 

"  Say,  Dallas,  come  to  yourself,  hey  ? 
Now,  I  meant  you  nothing  but  good,  as 
you  might  have  known.  I'll  hold  no 
grudge  against  you  for  this  bout,  boy. 
Nobody  can  say  George  Laddoun  keeps 
malice  ;"  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the 


96 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


man  who  had  tried  a  moment  ago  to 
murder  him,  witli  a  frank  smile. 

But  Dallas  shook  his  head.  "  I'm 
no  hypocrite.  You're  no  friend  of 
mine,  Laddoun.  No.  You  never  shall 
be." 

The  Colonel  took  off  his  hat  and  push- 
ed his  hair  back,  doubtfully.  The  boy, 
like  most  half-witted  people,  was  obsti- 
nate as  a  mule — hard  to  manage.  Was 
the  game  worth  the  chase  ?  He  had  a 
half  mind  to  mount,  and,  washing  his 
hands  of  the  whole  matter,  start  back  to 
California  in  the  morning.  But  then  he 
glanced  up  at  the  mountains,  rich  in 
minerals,  down  at  the  broad  river,  through 
tlie  grazing  valley.  It  was  the  estate  of 
a  prince :  some  day  to  settle  down  as  per- 
petual prime  minister  to  the  ruler  of  it 
would  be  no  ill  ending  to  his  vagabondage. 
It  was  worth  another  trial,  at  any  rate. 

"  Let  us  talk  the  matter  over  quietly,  Dal- 
las," he  said,  earnestly.  "  Look  at  it  coolly. 
YoU'are  beginning  your  career:  circum- 
stances have  so  chanced  that  you  have 
singularly  little  knowledge  of  the  world, 
while  few  men  have  had  my  opportunity 
for  mastering  its  ways  to  success.  I 
offer  you  my  help  out  of  sheer  regard 
for  old  friendship,  and  it  seems  to  me 
you  are  but  a  headstrong,  hot-headed 
fool  to  put  it  from  you.  That's  how  I 
look  at  the  thing.  You  may  have  an- 
other view  of  the  subject."  He  took 
out  a  cigar,  and,  striking  a  match  across 
his  boot,  lighted  it. 

Galbraith,  who  had  patted  and  soothed 
the  mare  into  quiet,  handed  the  bridle 
back  to  him.  "  I  have  no  confidences 
to  make  to  you.  I  am  going  with  Doc- 
tor Pritchard,  as  you  know,  no  doubt. 
It  would  be  wiser  in  you  not  to  interfere 
with  me.  I  acted  like  a  beast  to-night, 
and  I  may  do  it  again.  I  haven't  the 
control  of  myself  that  you  have — that 
any  man  has,  I  suppose."  He  turned 
away  abruptly  to  go  down  the  hill,  with 
no  word  of  leave-taking. 

There  had  been  a  bitter,  humiliated 
tone  in  his  voice,  which,  Laddoun  felt, 
came  from  some  depth  in  the  man's  na- 
ture which  he  could  not  sound.  He 
watched  him  as  he  went  slowly  down 
the    hill   with    tlie    amused   admiration 


which  he  might  give  to  a  bull-headed, 
courageous  dog. 

"Now,  that  fellow,"  he  thought,  as  he 
critically  bit  the  end  of  his  cigar,  "knows 
that  I  did  the  job  for  which  he  was  pun- 
ished, yet  he  never  blew  on  me,  nor  even 
taunted  me  with  it  to-night.  He's  too 
cursedly  proud.  Turns  his  broad  back 
on  me  now,  not  caring  to  think  what  a 
target  it  is  if  I  chose  to  put  a  bullet 
through  it!  I'll  have  another  tug  with 
him.  I  think  I  know  how  to  fetch  him 
down.  Hi  !  Galbraith  !"  Finding  that 
he  did  not  turn,  he  sprang  on  the  horse 
and  cantered  after  him  ;  but  slowly,  in 
order  to  allow  Dallas  to  almost  reach  the 
Indian  Queen  before  he  joined  him. 

Galbraith  paid  no  attention  to  the 
horse's  tramp  behind  him :  an  utter, 
overwhelming  sense  of  defeat  seemed  to 
shut  him  out  from  the  world.  Not  an 
hour  ago,  walking  up  and  down  in  the 
twilight,  he  had  been  picturing  to  him- 
self the  place  which  an  educated  gentle- 
man, strong  and  kindly,  could  take  in  life 
— a  follower  of  One  whom  Dallas,  with 
the  reverence  of  a  child  or  a  savage, 
never  named  aloud :  thinking  of  this  ideal 
hero,  vaguely  and  in  strange  connections : 
with  miserable,  vicious  little  children,  and 
with  a  pure  young  girl :  wondering  what 
chance  there  would  be  for  him  in  this 
expedition  with  Pritchard  to  train  him- 
self into  the  Hkeness  of  such  an  one. 
This  was  but  an  hour  ago ;  now,  his  hands 
would  be  stained  with  murder  but  for  the 
manliness  of  George  Laddoun :  no  brute 
could  have  wallowed  in  more  besotted 
depth  of  Wind  passion  than  he  had  done 
to-night.  He  had  gone  to  find  the  some- 
thing that  had  always  been  against  him 
in  Laddoun  yonder,  and  the  stronger, 
viler  foe  in  his  own  breast  had  risen  and 
dragged  him  down.  When  the  Colonel 
rode  up  beside  him  again  he  glanced  at 
him  indifferently,  as  if  he  and  his  malice 
were  almost  forgotten. 

"  I — I  have  had  a  long  ride,  Galbraith," 
said  Laddoun,  with  well-acted  hesitation, 
"and — well,  to  be  honest,  I'm  hungry. 
I  suppose  your  landlady  can  give  me  a 
bite  of  supper  V 

Dallas'  color  rose,  and  he  Quickened 
his  steps  without  looking  up.     "  You'll 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


97 


be  my  guest,  Laddoun  ?"  he  said,  civilly, 
with  an  effort  which  the  other  took  care 
not  to  notice. 

"With  pleasure,  my  boy!"  heartily. 
"You  were  always  a  hospitable  fellow. 
The  old  times  have  come  back,  eh  ?" 

Dallas  made  no  answer:  but  presently 
as  he  walked  he  loosened  his  cravat  as 
though  straitened  for  breath.  They 
went  down  tlie  road  in  silence,  Laddoun 
tranquilly  puffing  at  his  cigar,  a  twinkle 
of  amusement  in  his  black  eyes. 

"  Sa3s  Galbraith  !  Ton  my  soul  it's 
too  good  a  joke  to  keep  !"  he  broke  out 
at  last.  "  I  sold  you,  out  and  out,  up 
on  the  hill  yonder.  I  know  you  so  well, 
you  see.  When  I  threw  down  the  pistol 
at  your  feet,  it  wa'n't  loaded  !  Lord  !" 
mth  a  hearty  laugh,  "  I'd  have  made 
another  use  of  it  if  it  had  been.  Though 
I'd  be  sorry  to  hurt  a  hair  of  your  head, 
Dall.     But  you  didn't  suspect  me,  eh  .'"' 

"  No,  I  did  not  suspect  you,"  calmly, 
and  with  no  sign  of  surprise  or  irritation. 

"Well,  your  skull  was  always  thick, 
boy.  But  it  was  a  neat  hit  to  make  in 
the  very  jaws  of  death,  as  one  might 
say,"  caressing  his  jetty  beard  for  a  long 
time  afterward,  and  smiling  to  himself 
The  matter,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to 
pass  out  of  Galbraith's  mind  at  once. 
It  mattered  nothing  to  him  what  tricks 
Laddoun  played  on  him :  it  was  some 
ghastly  power  tugging  at  his  heart  with- 
in with  which  he  wrestled  in  silence. 

"  Hallo  !  here  we  are,"  called  the  Colo- 
nel, pulling  up  before  the  porch  and 
alighting.  "And  this  is  Mrs.  Beck,  eh  ?" 
taking  his  hat  quite  off  as  he  went  up 
the  steps.  '•  My  friend  Mr.  Galbraith 
has  promised  me  that  you  will  give  me  a 
morsel  of  supper,  madam.  Pie,  bread 
and  cheese,  anything  you  have.  A  slice 
of  Sunday's  roast  goose,  say." 

"We  had  a  goose  for  dinner,"  said 
Peggy,  getting  up  in  quite  a  flutter. 
'•  How  could  you  guess  that  now,  Mr.—  ?" 

"  Laddoun.  Colonel  Laddoun.  This 
is  your  boy .?"  drawing  Matt  up  to  his 
knee,  for  he  had  entered  the  little  living- 
room,  and  already  seemed  to  pre-empt 
and  fill  it.  But  Matt  pulled  away,  and 
went  out  whining  to  Dallas,  who,  after  a 
few  words  to  Mrs.  Beck,  paced  slowly 
7 


up  and  down  the  porch.  The  child 
took  his  hand,  and  looked  up  in  his  face, 
but  Dallas  avoided  his  eye. 

It  needed  only  a  few  moments  for 
Peggy  to  spread  an  appetizing  cold  supper 
before  the  Colonel  from  the  shelves  of 
her  clean  little  pantry,  chattering,  as  she 
went  in  and  out,  of  Dallas  and  the 
victuals  alternately,  while  Laddoun  lis- 
tened, with  a  smile  on  his  red  lips  under 
the  moustache ;  but  there  was  no  smile 
in  the  keen,  black  eyes  fixed  on  Gal- 
braith, who,  as  yet,  had  made  no  motion 
to  join  him  at  the  table.  He  knew  Dal- 
las had  an  Arab  sense  of  hospitality :  if 
he  broke  bread  with  him,  he  had  ceased 
to  count  him  as  an  enemy.  But  Lad- 
doun made  no  effort  to  bring  him  in :  it 
was  a  good  test  to  show  how  they  stood 
toward  each  other. 

When  the  supper  was  ready,  therefore, 
he  ate  of  it  alone,  though  every  mouth- 
ful choked  him,  feeling  like  a  dog  to 
whom  a  bone  had  been  thrown  in 
charity.  Dallas  came  to  the  door  as  he 
pushed  his  chair  back  and  stood  up. 

"  Try  some  of  this  old  Monongahela, 
Galbraith  ?"  eagerly — "  to  our  better  un- 
derstanding of  each  other.     Come." 

"  I  will  not  drink  with  you,  Laddoun. 
You  are  no  friend  to  me." 

Laddoun  put  down  the  untasted  glass 
with  a  heat  on  his  face  which  Galbraith's 
attempt  at  murder  had  not  roused  in 
him. 

"  As  you  will.  You're  implacable  in  a 
way  that  I  cannot  understand.  It's  not  in 
my  nature,  thank  God !"  He  closed  the 
door  and  came  up  to  Dallas,  who  stood 
leaning  on  the  mantel-shelf  Laddoun 
hesitated  and  stammered  before  the 
steady,  blue  eyes,  doubtful  how  to  begin 
his  last  attack. 

"  I  thought  we  could  patch  up  our  old 
break  over  a  meal  together,"  he  said  at 
last.  "You  used  to  be  the  prince  of 
good  fellows,  Dallas.  I  came  here  to- 
night with  the  best  intentions  toward 
you,  as  I  said.  I  have  discovered  a 
certain  matter  about  you,  of  which  I 
think  you  are  not  aware."  He  paused, 
but  Dallas  stood  silent. 

The  Colonel  paced  slowly  up  and 
down  ;    Mrs.  Beck,  outside,  listening  to 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


the  ponderous  tread  that  shook  the  httle 
house,  with  the  respect  due  to  afFabiHty 
when  found  encased  in  such  superfine 
clothes  and  chains  of  Californian  gold. 

"It  don't  matter  whether  we  are 
friends  or  foes,"  his  sonorous  bass  voice 
rising  into  a  sort  of  frank,  heroic  rhythm. 
"  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you,  and  then,  if 
you  say  the  word,  I'll  leave  you  to  enjoy 
your  good  fortune  alone.  I  have  dis- 
covered who  you  are,  Galbraith,"  with  a 
melodramatic  wave  of  the  hand. 

Dallas  nodded,  indifferently. 

"  You  see  those  hills  filled  with  min- 
eral wealth,  the  arable  slopes,  the  water- 
power  in  those  creeks  ?"  pointing  out 
of  the  window,  and  rolling  the  words 
like  a  sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue. 
"  You  are  the  heir  of  this  estate,  Dallas 
Galbraith,"  with  an  unction  as  though 
he  had  declared  the  triumph  his  own. 
"You  are  the  heir  !" 

"  I  know  it,"  quietly. 

Laddoun  stopped  short  with  amaze- 
ment. "  You  know  it  ?  And  you  are 
going  with  Pritchard  without  putting  in 
your  claim  ?  Do  you  mean  never  to 
talce  your  rightful  place  ?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  said  Dallas,  hesi- 
tating. "  I  may  come  back  to  them  when 
I  am  fit  for  that  place.     Not  until  then." 

"  When  you've  washed  off  the  Albany 
smell,  eh  ?"  with  a  loud  laugh.  "A  whiff 
of  that  would  be  damnation  to  your  cause 
down  in  the  Galbraith  house,  I  fancy. 
The  old  fellow  and  his  niece  are  narrow, 
religious  bigots,  and  the  old  madam  would 
cut  off  her  own  right  hand  if  it  had  touch- 
ed that  of  a  felon's.  I  know  the  whole 
party  well,"  his  voice  swelling  percepti- 
bly. "  Pritchard  and  old  James  Galbraith 
and  I  are  chums,  in  fact.  He's  got  a 
capital  run  of  sherry,  your  grandfather  ; 
but  I  forgot :  you  don't  know  much  about 
wines,"  with  a  smothered  laugh.  "  As 
for  the  httle  Dundas  girl,"  putting  on  the 
leer  with  which  he  was  used  to  fascinate 
women,  "  she's  a  nice  little  creature." 
He  stopped  short,  seeing  a  great  and 
uncontrollable  change  in  Galbraith's  face, 
and  then  continued,  more  deliberately  : 

"  In  my  younger  days  I  might  have 
been  tempted,  perhaps.  But  George 
Laddoun's  too  old  a  bird  to  catch  now." 


He  waited  in  vain  for  any  reply. 

"  How  long  will  you  be  gone  with 
Pritchard  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     One  or  four  years." 

"  The  devil  !"  He  could  not  conceal 
his  chagrin  and  anger ;  bit  his  under  lip, 
and  then  whistled,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
up  and  down,  to  keep  himself  silent. 
Even  one  year  to  a  man  who  crowded 
his  life  as  he  did,  meant  an  utter  change 
of  his  base  and  relations.  What  was  his 
secret  hold  on  Galbraith  worth  if  it  was 
to  be  half  a  lifetime  before  he  could  bring 
his  lever  to  bear  ? 

"Tut,  boy  !  What  folly  is  this  ?  I— 
you  may  be  six  foot  under  ground  in  as 
many  months.  Why  should  a  young, 
hearty  fellow  like  you  thrust  off  your  Luck 
even  for  a  day  when  it  comes  to  force 
good  fortune  on  you  ?  A  year  !  You 
will  come  back  in  a  year  to  find  your 
grandfather  dead,  most  likely,  and  the 
estate  given  over  to  that  sober  little 
Honora.  And  she,"  watching  him 
shrewdly,  "  the  property  of  some  clever 
chap  who  knows  how  to  pick  up  a  good 
thing  when  he  sees  it." 

Dallas  raised  himself  up  from  the 
lounging  attitude  in  which  he  had  list- 
ened. "  We  have  gone  far  enough,"  he 
said.  "  My  mind  was  made  up  to  go 
with  Doctor  Pritchard.  You  are  wast- 
ing time  with  me.     I  shall  not  alter  it." 

Laddoun  listened  attentively,  remain- 
ing thoughtful  and  silent  a  moment  after 
Dallas  had  done  speaking,  slowly  looping 
the  tassel-buttons  of  his  overcoat.  His 
face  suddenly  cleared. 

"  Well,  I  throw  the  matter  up.  You 
will  not  take  even  fortune  and  a  bride, 
if  it  be  my  hand  that  points  the  way  to 
them.  I'll  bid  you  good-bye,  Galbraith, 
and  hope  you  may  have  another  friend 
as  willing  and  ready  when  you  need  him. 
As  for  me,  I  will  not  cross  your  path 
again." 

"  You  have  not  pointed  the  way  to 
fortune  nor  kept  me  back  from  it,  Lad- 
doun," said  Dallas,  with  a  half  smile. 
"Your  coming  to-night  has  not  altered 
my  plans  or  position  a  whit.  The  time 
is  over  for  you  to  affect  my  fortune  in 
any  way.  I  see  that.  If  there  are  any 
enemies  for  me  to  fight,  they  must  come 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


99 


nearer  and  be  more  akin  to  me  than  you 
are  to  do  me  harm." 

The  Colonel  measured  the  cool,  un- 
demonstrative face  and  figure  before  him 
speculatively  for  a  moment :  then  he  re- 
laxed into  his  usual  good-humored  non- 
chalance. "  You  will  neither  suffer  me 
to  be  foe  nor  friend,"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh.  "So  be  it.  Good-night.  And 
good  luck,  Dallas !"  and  swinging  on  his 
glossy  beaver  with  a  half-cordial,  half- 
mocking  bow,  he  sallied  out  of  the  room, 
and  in  a  moment  had  brought  Peggy, 
Beck  and  Wash  about  him,  eager  and 
garrulous. 

Dallas  listened  to  his  loud,  musical, 
hearty  voice  answering,  flinging  back 
some  parting  jest  to  them  after  he  had 
mounted,  and  his  horse's  hoofs  began 
to  ring  down  the  rocky  path.  It  sounded 
to  Galbraith  like  a  hateful,  unmeaning 
refrain  to  which  the  words  of  his  early 
life  had  been  set.  To-night  he  found 
that  it  had  lost  all  power  over  him — had 
died  utterly  out  of  his  hfe ;  and  Hstening 
to  it,  a  light-hearted  sense  of  boyish  free- 
dom altogether  new  to  him  began  to 
brighten  the  world.  This  bugbear  of 
his  youth  proved,  w^ien  fairly  met,  to  be 
but  a  paltry  sham ;  and  then  a  broad, 
easy  road  to  the  best  manhood  had 
opened  itself  before  him.  As  for  the 
foe  within,  Dallas  did  just  as  we  all  do, 
and  put  it  comfortably  out  of  sight. 
Original  sin,  or  taint  of  the  prison,  or 
whatever  it  was,  there  was  a  long  life 
before  him  in  which  to  subdue  it  That 
was  an  easy  matter  ! 

What  were  those  words  of  Laddoun's  ? 
'•  Fortune  and  a  bride  ?" 

The  usually  grave,  composed  young 
fellow  took  Matt  nervously  up  on  his 
knee,  and  sat  glowering  into  the  red  cin- 
ders late  into  the  night,  deaf  to  that  small 
man's  efforts  at  conversation,  until  the 
fire  burned  out,  and  Matt,  in  despair,  fell 
asleep  and  snored  like  a  trumpeter.  If 
Doctor  Pritchard  started  during  tlie  next 
week,  Galbraith  must  find  some  means 
to  see  his  mother  again,  himself  unseen. 
It  was  this  visit  which  he  thought  he 
was  planning  now,  fancying  a  casual 
meeting  with  her  on  the  road.  She 
would  not  be   alone — it  was   not  likely 


she  would  be  alone.  Well,  and  then  ? 
Lizzy  would  have  thought  her  favorite 
an  idiot  if  she  had  known  his  wild,  in- 
credible fancies  that  night :  the  years — 
the  long,  beautiful,  healthy  life  from  youth 
to  far-off  death — which  he  built  out  of 
that  then :  the  chance  that  she  would 
not  be  alone. 

Laddoun,  meanwhile,  rode  briskly  back 
on  the  road  by  which  he  came.  He 
wanted  to  sleep  somewhere  near  the 
Stone-post  Farm,  that  he  could  be  there 
bright  and  early  in  the  morning.  If 
Galbraith  chose  to  put  off  his  chances 
for  years,  he  (Laddoun)  would  put  up 
with  no  such  folly.  He  meant  to  take 
the  fellow  and  his  fortune  in  hand  at 
once,  and  work  them  as  puppets  to  what 
end  he  chose.  He  would  begin  the  job 
to-morrow :  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 
There  was  a  pig-headed  stupidity  in 
Dallas  and  these  Western  kinsfolk  of  his 
which  would  bring  the  boy's  affairs  into 
a  hopeless  muddle  unless  some  man  of 
ability  would  take  them  up  and  make 
what  profit  he  could  out  of  them  for 
Galbraith  and  himself. 

He  was  in  high  spirits  when  he  reached 
Thorp's  and  called  Bill  out  to  take  the 
mare.  "  Not  a  hair  turned,  Billy,  though 
I  put  her  to  her  mettle." 

"  You've  got  urgent  business  on  hand, 
it  seems.  Colonel  ?" 

"I  have  that!"  emphatically.  >' Fm 
going  to  put  a  young  fellow  through  in 
a  way  that'll  astonish  the  folks  in  these 
parts.  Going  to  see  that  he  gets  his 
rights,  or  I'll  take  the  wind  out  of  the 
sails  of  a  certain  party  that  I  know.  I 
hate  oppression,  Bill.'' 

"A  young  fellow  in  these  parts,  eh  ? 
You  couldn't  give  names,  I  reckon?" 
rubbing  down  the  mare  reflectively. 

"Well,  no,  Billy,  I  couldn't.  But  you 
wait.  When  George  Laddoun's  about, 
justice  'II  be  done.  That's  my  way. 
When  any  of  the  boys  want  a  lift  down 
in  San  Francisco,  Colonel's  the  man.  I 
don't  say  it  boastfully.  It's  my  nature, 
and  I  can't  help  it.  Better  for  me  if  I 
could."  He  went  off  soon  after,  Thorp 
looking  after  him  almost  as  much  kin- 
dled with  admiration  for  his  generosity 
as  Laddoun  was  for  it  himself 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

There  was  a  bunch  of  flowers,  in  a 
little  vase,  on  Madam  Galbraith's  break- 
fast-table next  morning — a  crimson  ca- 
mellia, with  a  snowy  edging  of  violets. 
Gerty  saw  it  the  instant  she  came  in. 
Mr.  Dour  had  been  down  at  the  village 
last  night,  and  there  was  a  hot-house  in 
the  truck-garden  there,  and  the  bouquet 
was  beside  Honora's  plate.  Hers  was 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  A 
lump  rose  in  her  throat,  choking  her, 
and  the  dry  tears  began  to  burn  in  her 
eyes.  Walking  home  from  church  yester- 
day, Paul  had  been  barely  civil  to  her, 
and  was  it  any  wonder  ?  She  had  but 
two  dresses  in  which  to  make  herself 
look  decent — the  blue  poplin  and  red 
merino — while  Honora  had  a  costume  for 
every  fresh  humor  and  whim.  Yet  Mr. 
Dour  thought  that  she  was  his  own 
soul's  true  mate :  he  had  said  as  much 
one  day,  and  quoted  Plato  about  it.  She 
did  not  know  much  about  Plato,  but  she 
did  know  that  she  would  be  glad  to  be 
his  servant,  to  black  his  shoes  if  need 
were ;  and  if  he  would  make  her  his  wife 
they  could  live  nicely  on — well,  just  next 
to  nothing:  she  was  a  different  sort  of 
housekeeper  from  Miss  Dundas.  The 
poor  fellow  would  never  have  to  go  about 
then  with  unhemmed  cravats  and  ragged 
shirt-cuffs.  But  there  was  no  hope  of 
that !  She  believed  Madam  Galbraith 
had  brought  him  there  expressly  to 
marry  Honora,  and  they  had  him  in  their 
toils  now  ;  and  as  for  her,  she  was  grow- 
ing old  and  shabby.  There  was  quite  a 
wrinkle  between  her  eyes  lately ;  and 
how  miserable  the  ruffle  of  cotton  lace 
looked  about  her  neck  beside  Honora's 
lovely  worked  linen  chemisettes  ! 

She  could  not  eat  her  muffin  or  chop 
at  all,  but  merely  sipped  wretchedly  at 
her  coffee.  Mr.  Dour  sat  near  her,  but 
she  would  not  turn  so  much  as  a  glance 
toward  him.  She  hoped  she  knew  her 
duty  as  a  woman.  Miss  Dundas  came 
in  late,  just  as  her  pony-chaise  was 
driven  in  front  of  the  windows.  She 
wore  a  gray  dress,  edged  with  fur,  and 
carried  her  little  fur  cap  and  gloves  in 
her  hand — all  delicate  and    picturesque 


and  winning,  oddly  suiting  the  dewy,  clear 
eyes  and  fresh,  emphatic  little  face:  how 
could  one  ever  make  anything  out  of  a 
stiff  poplin  look  like  that  1  Honora  looked 
soberly  at  the  flowers  a  moment. 

"Jane,"  she  said — "Jane,  there  is  a 
mistake  here.  These  flowers  cannot  be 
intended  for  me  ;"  and  began  to  chip 
her  egg  in  severe  silence.  Mr.  Dour 
scowled  at  her,  but  said  nothing,  old 
Madam  Galbraith's  eyes  being  on  him  ; 
and  the  vase  was  carried  by  Jane  igno- 
miniously  to  the  mantel-shelf,  where  the 
camellia  began  to  wilt,  and  finally  fell  in 
the  ashes. 

"You  are  going  to  drive,  Honora?" 
asked  Mrs.  Duffield,  who  was  looking 
lazily  over  the  last  week's  paper. 

"Yes,  down  to  the  village." 

"Alone?  Your  ponies  look  mettle- 
some, child." 

"  I  am  going  alone."  Miss  Dundas' 
tones  were  without  doubt  cross :  the 
flowers  had  made  her  heart  beat  more 
than  she  chose  to  perceive.  She  could 
not  shut  her  eyes  any  longer  to  Mr. 
Dour's  proceedings.  Poor  Gerty !  It 
was  a  shame !  a  shame !  And  yet  what 
must  it  be  to  be  loved — to  love  ? 

Whatever  might  be  the  ogre  or  angel 
who  made  pictures  before  the  young  wo- 
man's brain  just  then,  they  kept  her  sit- 
ting at  the  table  alone  after  every  one  else 
was  gone — eating  dry  toast  mechanically, 
quite  unconscious  of  her  pawing  ponies, 
and  of  even  Mr.  Dour,  who  had  held  his 
eyes  upon  her  during  the  whole  course 
of  the  meal.  She  passed  him,  when  she 
did  rise  from  her  breakfast,  with  such  an 
indifferent  nod,  that  he  turned  straight 
to  the  well-known  blue  dress  in  an  arm- 
chair by  the  fire.  But  little  Gerty  did 
not  even  nod  to  him:  indeed,  her  big 
eyes,  patient  and  sorrowful  as  a  cow's, 
were  so  intent  on  her  tatting  that  she 
did  not  seem  to  feel  him  touch  her  arm. 
He  turned  from  her. 

"My  poor  camellia!"  in  a  half  -whis- 
per, picking  it  up  from  the  fender.  "  It 
went  far  astray  this  morning.  As  the 
heart  of  its  owner,"  with  a  deep 
breath. 

The  tatting  went  all  wrong :  the  curled 
lashes  trembled  on  the  chubby  cheeks. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"You  did  not  mean  to  give  it  to  Miss 
Dundas,  then  ?"' 

"  No." 

She  looked  closer  at  her  shuttle  :  t\vo 
big  tears  rolled  from  under  the  lashes. 
They  were  too  much  for  Paul  Dour. 
«*  I  meant  to  give  nothing  to  Miss  Dun- 
das.  Gerty,"  bending  over  her. 

"  I  am  sure  it  does  not  matter  to  me 
if  you  gave  her  all  the  flowers  in  the 
world,"  said  Miss  Rattlin,  drawing  her- 
self suddenly  up  with  the  dignity  of  a 
partridge.      "Why  should  it  ?" 

Paul  stared  down  at  her  and  crumbled 
the  burned  flower  into  bits.  "  To  be 
sure,  why  should  it  ?"  he  said  vacantly, 
and  putting  on  his  cap  directly  afterward, 
he  went  out  to  look  for  quails,  followed 
by  a  saucy  laugh  from  the  fireside.  He 
was  out  of  temper  with  himself.  What 
did  it  concern  him  if  this  silly  little  vil- 
lage girl  was  full  of  vagaries  ?  He  had 
taken  the  first  honors  of  his  year:  he 
had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Concord  to 
visit  Emerson,  believing  that  he  stood  on 
the  foremost  ramparts  of  thought,  side 
by  side  with  that  great  seer.  Sometimes 
(especially  after  reading  the  books  of  that 
great  master)  he  was  conscious  of  original 
power  in  his  own  brain  enough  to  make 
this  whole  fallow  country  fruitful  with 
ideas.  And  this  little  jilt  treated  him  as 
though  he  were  a  penny  whistle,  on  which 
&he  could  blow  what  tune  she  pleased. 
She  was  nothing  to  him. 

What  the  devil  did  she  mean  just 
now  ?  Was  it  possible  she  did  not  care 
for  him  ? 

"What  are  you  so  glum  about,  Dour?" 
asked  Colonel  Pervis,  who  was  with  him. 
"A  woman,  TU  wager." 

"Oh,  I've  done  with  women,  long 
ago,"  sourly.  "I've  outgrown  that  folly. 
Nobody  ever  did  understand  them  since 
the  old  Serpent  when  he  managed  Eve." 

"And  even  he  got  the  worst  of  it  at 
last— eh  ?" 

Gerty,  for  some  reason,  was  by  this 
time  quite  rosy  and  radiant  over  her 
shuttling.  She  made  half-a-dozen  puns, 
at  which  Mrs.  Duffield  lit'ted  her  dehcate 
brows  in  astonishment  and  smiled  faintly. 
She  grew  very  caressing  to  Honora,  put 
on  her  cap  for  her,  and  called  her  a  dear 


little  thing,  patronizingly,  at  the  end  of 
every  sentence. 

"What  a  queer  dress,  you  dear  little 
thing !  Quite  Polish,  isn't  it,  though  ? 
Gentlemen  don't  like  anything  so  pro- 
nounced, I  think.  Why  don't  you  wear 
blue  ?  But  you  can't — I  forgot.  Your 
skin  won't  bear  it.  I  think  this  is  a 
sweet  shade  in  my  poplin.  '  Tender  and 
true,'  that's  the  meaning  of  the  color. 
A  gentleman  told  me  so  last  week." 

"  Letters  !"  called  Madam  Galbraith, 
taking  a  black  leather  bag  from  a  man 
at  the  door.  "  Half  a  dozen  for  your 
sister,  Gertrude.  All  from  young  men. 
Tut !  tut !  Girls  nowadays  pass  about 
their  ideas  and  feelings  at  such  a  rate 
that  they  must  be  tolerably  well-worn 
coin  when  a  husband  comes  to  get  them. 
Here  is  a  letter  for  Elizabeth,  Honora. 
I  wish  you  would  take  it  to  her,  child. 
And  speak  to  her  of  that  matter,"  lower- 
ing her  voice.  "I  will  not  have  her  go, 
d'ye  understand  ?  I  want  to  hear  no 
more  of  it.  It's  sheer  temper  in  Eliza- 
beth. And  the  woman  has  no  home  but 
this.      I  know  it." 

Honora  obeyed  quickly,  as  though  the 
errand  pleased  her.  She  looked,  as  she 
went,  at  the  big,  square  yellow  envelope, 
with  its  direction  in  a  man's  crabbed 
hand,  and  the  queer,  written  postmark — 
Manasquan.  "  It's  a  love-letter,"  with 
an  authoritative  nod.  "  Maybe  she  has 
another  home  than  this,  after  all."  Hon- 
ora was  as  nervous  and  curious  in  this 
matter  of  love  to-day  as  a  traveler  might 
be  about  a  new  country  of  which  his  feet 
had  just  touched  the  shore. 

"  I've  something  for  you,  Lizz)',"  she 
cried,  tapping  at  the  door  of  the  house- 
keeper's prim  little  room  and  going  in. 
"  News  from  a  friend.  The  best  friend, 
perhaps,"  holding  it  over  her  head  and 
looking  archly  at  Lizzy  as  she  rose 
soberly,  brushing  the  bits  of  thread  from 
her  dress  before  she  took  the  letter  and 
looked  at  it.     Surely  she  blushed  ! 

«  Sit  down,  Honora,"  gravely  placing 

a  chair.     She  always  treated  her  like  a 

willful  child,  but  Nora  spent  a  large  share 

I  of  her  time  in  Lizzy's  room,  knowing  by 

1  instinct  how   welcome   she   was   to   the 

I  lonely  woman.      Honora  was   the   only 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


one  in  the  house  who  had  always  treated 
her  as  an  equal. 

"  It's  a  letter  from  Manasquan,"  she 
said,  after  she  had  glanced  over  it,  fold- 
ing it  hurriedly.  "  My  old  home,  you 
know.  It's  from  a  friend  of  mine — 
James  Van  Zeldt ;  or  he's  an  agent,  rather, 
I  ought  to  say.  I  have  a  little  house 
and  a  lot  there,  and  he  rents  them  for  me, 
and  twice  a  year  he  writes  about  them." 

"  Oh  !"  with  a  disappointed  shrug. 
•'  Now,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  it  was 
from  a  lover,  Lizzy.  Everybody  has  a 
lover." 

"  He  is  only  an  agent,  I  assure  you, 
Honora,"  without  a  smile.  "  Wait ; 
here  is  his  letter.  There  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  keep  Jim's  letters  secret,  as 
if  they  mattered  anything  to  me,"  earnest- 
ly, pulling  it  out  of  her  pocket.  "  Do  take 
it,  Honora.      I  wish  you  to  read  it." 

"Well,  I  will  then,"  ensconcing  her- 
self comfortably  on  the  low  window-seat. 
The  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
the  road  leading  to  the  door  wound  past 
the  low  windows.  The  sun  shone  in 
pleasantly  through  the  frosted  bushes 
which  overgrew  the  panes,  over  Honora's 
bent  head.  Lizzy  stood,  square  and 
sober,  facing  her,  looking  beyond  her 
down  the  outside  slope.  Nora  opened 
the  letter  slowly. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  thinking  of  going 
back  to  Manasquan,  Miss  Byrne,"  she 
said,  her  color  rising  diffidently.  "  But 
my  aunt  bade  me  tell  you  you  must  not 
say  one  other  word  of  leaving  us.  She 
cannot  do  without  you,  Lizzy,  and  neither 
can  I." 

Lizzy  touched  a  bit  of  the  girl's  soft 
brown  hair,  which  hung  loose,  gently, 
and  then  drew  her  hand  hastily  away. 
"  I  did  not  think  anybody  here  would 
care  for  my  going,"  she  said,  with  a 
pleased  heat  and  flurry.  "  It  has  come 
to  be  really  like  home  to  me,"  glancing 
round  at  the  neat  little  bed,  the  rocking- 
chair,  the  teapot  and  solitary  cup  and 
saucer  beside  the  fire.  She  was  think- 
ing that  it  would  be  good  if  she  could 
wait  here  until  her  boy  Dallas  came  back 
to  claim  his  own.  It  would  be  a  very 
hard  wrench  to  part  with  Honora.  She 
was  fonder  than  she  knew  of  the  girl. 


"  But  I  never  would  go  back  to  Ma- 
nasquan unless  just  to  die  there,"  she 
said,  solemnly,  at  which  Honora  looked 
up  at  her  with  her  liquid,  dark  eyes  in- 
stantly full  of  sympathy.  She  understood 
it  all.  Poor  Lizzy  had  buried  something 
out  of  her  life  in  the  old  home  for  which 
there  was  no  resurrection. 

"  You  will  stay  with  us,  and  we  won't 
talk  of  Manasquan  any  more,"  she  said, 
gently,  and  was  purposely  a  long  time 
in  opening  the  envelope  and  taking  out 
Jim's  awkward  letter,  while  Lizzy  stood 
motionless.  It  was  not  altogether  dis- 
agreeable for  her  to  look  out  into  the 
pleasant  sunshine  and  think  that  her  life 
had  been  a  sacrifice.  She  might  be 
homely  and  sedate  and  middle-aged,  but 
she  was  a  heroine  !  Quite  as  much  as 
the  ideal  woman  of  any  novel  she  had 
ever  read.  She  had  acted  from  the  inner 
truth  of  things  to  help  others.  Now,  all 
hope  for  herself  here  was  over — all  over. 
She  had  grown  old.  She  knew  "the 
purple  glory  of  the  morning  faded." 

Since  she  found  she  could  do  nothing 
more  for  Dallas  at  the  Stone-post  Farm, 
she  naturally  had  looked  about  the  world 
for  a  place  to  which  to  go.  It  must 
never  be  to  Manasquan.  She  had  been 
young  there  and  beloved.  Her  walks 
with  Laddoun  on  the  sands  in  the  moon- 
light, with  the  eternal  moan  of  the  sea 
making  rhythm  for  the  song  in  her  heart, 
came  back  to  her.  Whatever  Laddoun 
might  be,  that  was  the  one  gleam  of 
poetry  in  her  life.  No  true  woman  could 
love  or  be  happy  twice.  Some  day,  per- 
haps, when  she  felt  the  last  hour  was 
very  near,  she  would  go  back  to  the  quiet 
old  village,  and,  with  the  moan  of  the 
sea  sounding  in  her  ears,  and  the  moon- 
light perhaps  shining  down  on  her 
changed  face,  make  a  fit  ending  to  her 
sad  story.  For  Lizzy,  like  most  women, 
had  drawn  much  of  her  idea  of  the  eter- 
nal fitness  of  things  from  the  poems  and 
semi-religious  novels  which  she  read. 

When  she  found  Honora  had  opened 
the  letter,  she  said,  apologetically  :  "  It 
is  a  very  plain  letter  that  Jim  writes,  and 
I'm  not  so  sure  about  the  spelling.  But 
he  is  a  good,  kind  fellow,  for  all." 

He  seemed  so  far  outside  and  below 


DALLAS    GALBRAITIL 


103 


the  living  poem  in  which  the  sea  and  her 
forsaken  home  and  the  music  of  Lad- 
doun's  deceiving  tongue  had  sliare.  And 
yet- 

"  It  is  a  very  good  letter,"  said  Hon- 
ora.  gravely,  after  a  while.  "  1  thinlc  I 
would  like  your  James  Van  Zeldt  more 
tlian  you  do."  Turning  to  the  first  page, 
she  read  it  again  aloud  : 

"  Manasquan,  October  30. 
«  Respected  Friend  :  I  take  the 
liberty  of  stating  to  you,  that  the  House 
is  lett :  to  the  same  parties  as  heretofore. 
I  remit  the  rent  due.  With  regard  to 
your  inquirees  as  to  repairs  :  I  have  to 
say  there  is  none  needed :  a  new  Roof 
was  put  on  by  some  of  the  Neighbors  : 
same  as  regards  a  Pump :  they  desire 
their  names  not  to  mentioned  :  I3ut  that 
it  would  be  strange  if  you  would  wish  to 
make  payment  therfor :  they  have  not 
forgot  old  times,  though  they  fear  greatly 
that  you  have  so  done.  There  is  no 
changes  in  Manasquan,  since  I  wrote 
last,  except  that  one  or  two  is  gone. 
Aaron  Bent  and  the  mother  of  your  old 
friend  George.  She  grew  feebler  for 
two  years,  going  up  and  down  the 
beach  incessant ;  watching  the  far-oflf 
sails,  thinking  they  would  bring  one  of 
her  boys :  We  found  her  lying  quite  sdll 
there  one  morning,  the  sand  blown  over 
her:  We  have  not  heard  news  of  her 
son  George  since  you  went  away  five 
years  ago  last  April :  his  property  was 
sold  out  then  :  I  have  thought  of  asking 
you  if  you  knew  of  his  whereabouts. 
There  have  been  times  when  I  thought 
I  would  ask  you  to  tell  me  if  your  rela- 
tions to  him  had  changed  :  but  I  would 
not  hurt  you,  Lizzy,  no  matter  what  my 
feelings  may  be.  You  ask  me  about  my 
own  affairs.  They  is  prosperous.  I 
have  a  comfortable  House  and  Farm. 
I  have  the  best  poultry-yard  in  these 
parts.  I  find  it  lonesome  at  times  but 
I  am  in  no  mind  to  marry,  any  young 
girl  hereabouts  as  you  proposed  to  me 
once.  I  have  no  more  to  say  except 
that  if  you  are  minded  to  come  back 
you'll  find  them  as  was  friends — friends 
still.  Your  taking  part  with  that  unfor- 
tunate Boy  will  not  set  any  one  against 


you.  Least  of  all,  me.  But  I  suppose 
you  are  among  fashionable  folk  and  know 
the  World.  It  is  a  long  time  since  you 
went  away.  Five  years  last  April.  I 
often  wonder  if  you  know  how  long.  I 
am  with  respect,  your  friend  and  well- 
wisher,  James  Van  Zeldt." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  as  to  what  you 
would  call  a  love-letter,"  said  Honora, 
meaningly,  patting  the  letter  on  her 
liand.  "  But  he  was  a  very  genuine  man 
who  wrote  that,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  Jim  is  a  very  honest  fellow. 
But—" 

"  I  would  like  to  see  his  farm  and 
house." 

"  It  would  not  differ  in  any  way  from 
any  small  plot  about  here.  Jim  is  very 
commonplace,  and  so  are  all  his  be- 
longings ;"  comparing,  as  she  said  it, 
little  Van  Zeldt,  his  house  and  poultry- 
yard,  with  the  flood  of  moonlight  on 
the  great,  ebbing  tide,  and  the  tender 
grace  and  glamour  of  Laddoun's  presence 
— a  presence  which  had  grown  very  real 
to  Lizzy  lately,  as  she  had  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  bringing  it  before  her,  after  the 
fashion  of  women,  to  make  more  bitter 
the  consciousness  that  her  idol  had  been 
but  clay.  It  came  so  strongly  before 
her  now  that  she  scarcely  heeded  Hon- 
ora as  she  rose  and  gave  her  the  letter, 
turning  to  the  little  oval  mirror  on  the 
wall  to  adjust  her  cap  and  hair. 

"  I  am  going  now,  Lizzy.  I  mean  to 
drive  down  to  the  village." 

"It  is  a  good  morning  for —  What 
is  that  V  with  a  sudden  cry, 

"  Why,  Lizzy  !"  Honora  caught  her 
arm.  "  I  heard  nothing.  Do  you  see 
ghosts  in  daylight  ?  What  frightened 
you  V  placing  her  on  a  chair. 

"  I  will  not  sit  down.  It  was  a  voice 
I  have  not  heard  for  years." 

"  I  hear  Sam  whistling  :  he  is  raking 
the  leaves  from  the  path.  There  is  no- 
body else  there,"  going  to  the  window. 
"  Your  letter  has  put  you  en  rapport 
with  somebody  who  is  gone,  as  the  me- 
diums would  say,  or  made  you  ner\'Ous. 
That  is  it." 

"  I  could  not  be  deceived  !"  said  Lizzy, 
huskily,   straining  her  eyes   across   the 


I04 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


field.  Her  pale,  thick  skin  was  damp 
and  iier  mouth  set  firmly.  "What  shall 
I  do  if  he  comes  here,  Honora  ?  It  is 
all  over  l^etween  us — all  over." 

Mrs.  Duffield's  doubt  of  Lizzy's  sanity 
came  to  Nora's  mind.  "  I  do  not  think 
there  was  any  one  there,  dear  Miss 
Byrne,"  she  said,  soothingly.  "  How- 
ever, I  will  go  and  look." 

When  she  left  the  room  the  old  mu- 
sical voice  rang  out  again  suddenly  and 
close  at  hand.  The  gardener's  mumbling 
tones  were  heard  in  reply.  Lizzy  threw 
up  the  window,  leaning  on  the  sill  with 
both  hands,  and  waited. 

"  Get  from  under  the  horse's  feet,  fel- 
low !"  cried  Laddoun,  loudly,  snapping 
his  whip  over  the  horse's  ear.  "  Tell  old 
James  Galbraith  and  his  wife  I  want  them 
— both  of  'em — without  loss  of  time." 

"  And  who'll  I  say  wants  them  ?"  de- 
liberately, dragging  a  mass  of  leaves 
across  the  road. 

"  One  that  can  put  you  and  them  to 
the  right-about  when  he  chooses,"  sternly. 
"  One  that  will  be  met  in  this  house  in 
a  different  sort  of  fashion  a  year  from 
now,  I  fancy." 

How  princely  the  sternness  and  cour- 
age in  his  voice  used  to  seem  to  her  ! 
She  was  older  now.  She  only  thought  that 
he  must  have  been  drinking,  early  as  it 
was  in  the  day.  The  old  gardener  shuf- 
fled by,  grumbling  and  stopping  to  rake 
as  he  went.  The  horse's  slow  footfalls 
came  nearer  on  the  graveled  road  beside 
her,  so  near  that  Moro,  the  old  house-dog, 
ran  lazily  by  out  of  his  way.  She  could  not 
drav/  her  breath  in  all  the  cold,  fresh  air. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then, 
in  the  full  morning  sunshine,  Laddoun 
rode  up  the  path.  The  lover  of  her 
youth,  witli  no  tender  glamour  of  grace 
and  youth  about  him,  but  overgrown  and 
well-to-do ;  oily  and  coarse  with  low  suc- 
cesses :  vulgar  chains  strung  over  his 
gaudy  waistcoat,  and  a  vulgar  leer  iun- 
der  his  thick  eyelids.  He  had  set  his 
hat  on  one  side,  curbed  his  horse,  and 
rode  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  pomp  for 
his  own  delectation,  with  the  bearing 
which  he  imagined  would  be  that  of  a 
crown  prince  entering  on  possession  of 
his  kingdom.     True,  Dallas  was  the  heir, 


but  what  would  Dallas  ever  be  but  his 
tool  ?  He  lifted  his  eyes  with  a  haughty 
indiflference. 

Lizzy  stood  in  the  low  window  close 
at  his  side. 

She  was  squarer  and  more  sober  and 
matter-of-fact  than  ever.  There  was  the 
very  brown  stuff  dress  which  she  wore 
at  Manasquan,  and  her  knitting  stuck  in 
its  sheath.  She  and  Dallas,  of  all  the 
world,  alone  knew  him  to  be  a  forger 
and  a  villain. 

He  put  out  both  hands  before  him, 
dropping  the  bridle,  breathless  and  silent 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  hurled  an  oath 
at  her  full  of  fury,  as  readily  as  if  he  had 
been  her  husband  all  these  years. 

"  Why  did  you  come  in  my  way  ? 
What  are  you  here  for  V 

There  was  no  reply.  The  bright  morn- 
ing sunshine  fell  about  them.  The  crack- 
ling of  the  twigs  under  his  horse's  feet 
sounded  loud  and  jarring  in  the  intense 
silence,  and  his  watch  ticked  noisily. 

Lizzy  put  her  hands  to  her  throat. 
"Is  it  Dallas?"  she  cried,  under  her 
breath.  "  Do  you  want  him  ?  How 
could  you  think  I  would  harm  you, 
Laddoun !  If  only  for  the  sake  of  old 
times — " 

"  Bah  !"  gathering  up  the  rein  with  a 
snort  of  anger  and  disdain.  "What  are 
old  times  to  me  ?" 

No  matter  what  his  loss  might  be, 
Laddoun,  with  men,  never  lost  his  tem- 
per when  the  cards  were  against  him. 
But  this  was  only  a  woman,  and  the 
game  had  been  so  nearly  won !  He  ad- 
justed the  bridle  a  moment,  controlling 
himself,  and  then  pushing  the  horse  into 
the  bushes  which  separated  them,  scan- 
ned her  from  head  to  foot  with  a  cool,  de- 
hberate  stare,  which  took  note  of,  and 
taunted  her,  as  she  well  understood,  with 
every  mark  of  age  or  homeliness. 

"Old  times  have  no  significance  to 
me,  Lizzy,"  he  said.  "You  forget  that 
I  have  been  abroad  in  the  world,  and 
seen  many  other  women  since  then, 
differing  from  those  of  Manasquan." 

She  drew  back :  the  quick  change  in 
her  face  made  him  suddenly  pause. 

"  I  had  no  wish  to  remind  you  of 
Manasq«an,  George,"  she  said,  with  un- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


105 


natural  quietness.  "  I  said  the  remem- 
brance of  it  would  keep  me  from  doing 
you  harm.  It  has  not  lost  its  signifi- 
cance to  me." 

But  there  was  a  different  meaning  in 
these  words,  lie  fancied.  A  covert  threat  ; 
and  Laddoun  secretly  cowered  before  it. 
He  thought,  too,  he  understood  her  game. 
"  There  is  no  room  here  for  you  and  me 
both  to  work,"  he  said,  coarsely,  "and 
you've  been  beforehand  with  me.  You 
always  had  'capacity,'  as  the  Yankees 
say.  You've  got  the  whip-hand  of  me 
with  Dallas  now." 

"Dallas  is  going:  he  will  not  be  in 
your  way,"  she  cried.  "  Let  the  boy 
alone,  for  God's  sake,  George  !  You've 
done  him  harm  enough." 

Laddoun  looked  at  her  keenly  in 
silence.  She  was  not  levying  black-mail 
off  Galbraith  then  1  At  least  not  for 
the  present.  There  might  yet  be  time 
to  play  his  last  card. 

''You  are  going  to  let  him  start  on 
this  wild-goose  chase  then  1  The  more 
fool  you.  Well,  my  game  is  up.  So, 
so !"  snapping  his  fingers  with  a  shrug 
which  he  had  caught  from  the  Mexicans, 
his  manner  always  being  a  thing  of 
shreds  and  patches,  gathering  as  he 
went. 

"Good-bye,  Lizzy,"  lifting  his  hat  and 
fixing  his  bold,  black  eyes  on  her.  "It 
was  but  yesterday  Dall  and  I  spoke  of 
you.  But  you've  altered.  Time  tells 
on  us  all,  eh  ?" 

She  was  bending  forward,  her  hands 
resting  on  the  window-sill,  steadily  look- 
ing into  his  red,  excited  face.  Laddoun 
moved  uneasily.  "  Do  you  see  that  it 
is  the  same  man  as  your  old  lover  ?" 
with  a  forced  laugh. 

« I  see  that  it  is  the  same." 

"Yes,  I'm  the  same  old  Laddoun. 
Good-bye,  Lizzy."  But  he  bowed  again, 
and  glanced  back  uncomfortably  once  or 
t^vice  at  the  motionless  figure  as  he  rode 
away.  He  thought  that  he  had  played 
his  hand  badly.  She  might  have  stood 
his  friend.  "  I  fancied  the  old  fire  had 
not  altogether  burned  out  when  she 
looked  at  me  first.  But  Talleyrand  was 
right.  She  is  my  enemy  now  for  life. 
I  have  called  her  ugly  and  old." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

HoNORA  came  back  in  a  few  mo- 
ments :  "  I  knew  you  were  mistaken, 
Lizzy.  There  is  no  one  in  sight  whom 
you  could  possibly  know.  There  is  a 
horseman  going  down  the  avenue,  a 
stout,  over-dressed  man,  whose  very 
shoulders  assert  themselves :  I  think  it 
is  a  Colonel  Laddoun,  whom  we  met 
yesterday  coming  home  from  church. 
He  is — "  an  indescribable  contemptuous 
shrug  finished  the  sentence.  "  He  could 
be  nothing  to  you,  Lizzy." 

"  No,'  said  Lizzy,  "  he  is  nothing  to 
me." 

"You're  dreadfully  shaken  by  that 
letter,  poor  thing.  I  did  not  think  you 
had  been  so  nervous.  Come  out  with 
me :  the  cold  air  will  make  you  feel  as 
if  you  were  freshly  bom." 

"No.  I'll  He  down  by  the  fire,  and 
take  some  tea.  That  is  the  remedy  for 
all  middle-aged  people,"  glancing  with  a 
miserable  smile  over  the  girl's  shoulder 
into  the  little  mirror. 

"  Middle-aged,  indeed !  Why  look  at 
this,"  and  Honora,  with  ready  tact,  pulled 
down  Lizzy's  beautiful  hair,  and  let  the 
black,  glossy  masses  fall  about  her  until 
they  touched  the  floor.  "What  would  I 
not  give  for  it  ?  Talk  of  your  youth 
being  gone  while  you  have  that,  and  your 
smooth,  pure  skin !  If  you'd  only  drink 
less  tea,  and  brood  less  over  the  fire, 
your  color  would  come  back ;  and  you 
ought  to  take  care  of  your  looks  for  the 
sake  of — your  'friends  and  well-wish- 
ers,'" with  a  meaning  twinkle  in  her 
eyes. 

But  Lizzy  refused  to  smile,  cowering 
on  a  stool  wretchedly  over  the  fire,  paler 
even  than  before.  Honora  began  to 
draw  on  her  gloves,  watching  her  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  with  an  authori- 
tative nod,  measuring  her  words  'n  a 
m-iniature  imitation  of  Madam  Galbraith, 
"  there  is  one  sentence  in  that  letter 
about  which  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to 
speak  to  you.  I  believe  that  I  see  in  it 
tiie  cause  of  your  troubles.  I  inferred 
from  it  that  you  had  allowed  yourself  to 
become  entangled  in  the  fortunes  of  some 


io6 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


desperate  character — some  abandoned 
wretch.  I  think  that — well,  I  think  it 
very  imprudent,  Elizabeth." 

Lizzy  turned  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  a  sudden,  inexphcable  meaning  on 
her  face.  "You  saw  the  abandoned 
wretch,  Honora,  for  whom  I  sacrificed 
my  life.  You  gave  him  your  hand,  and 
told  him  you  believed  in  him.  He  will 
not  soon  forget  it.  The  touch  of  your 
hand  counted  for  more  to  him  than  the 
work  of  many  of  my  years." 

"  Oh,  the  convict !  I  remember," 
growing  violently  hot  and  red.  "  I  could 
not  help  that.  Something  in  the  man's 
words  carried  me  out  of  myself  for  the 
time.  But  I  draw  a  line,"  her  slight, 
stately  figure  rising  to  its  height :  the 
training  and  creed  of  her  whole  life  start- 
ing up  to  give  fluency  and  force  to  the 
words.  "  It  is  our  duty  as  Christians 
to  hold  out  a  helping  hand  and  to  speak 
encouraging  words  to  that  class  of  peo- 
ple, but  to  consort  with  them  and  make 
them  companions  ! — It  is  to  touch  pitch 
and  to  be  defiled." 

"You  forget  your  Master's  work," 
rising.  "  He  made  friends  of  publicans 
and  sinners." 

"  That  is  a  different  matter,"  sharply. 
The  little  lady,  with  all  her  radicalism, 
did  not  choose  that  her  housekeeper 
should  argue  with  her.  "  He  could  not 
be  tainted  by  contact,  but  a  woman  like 
me  or  you,  Elizabeth,  should  keep  her- 
self pure  and  apart.  The  Church's 
ministers  were  left  to  preach  His  gospel," 
sententiously.  "We  are  to  teach  it  too, 
but  more  by  example  than  directly : 
surely  not  by  mixing  ourselves  up  with 
the  every-day  life  of  vulgar  and  vile  peo- 
ple. I  will  be  very  sorry,  Lizzy,  if  I 
find  you  have  been  drawn  into  any  such 
connection.  My  uncle  and  aunt  would 
be  very  sorry,"  buttoning  her  gloves  de- 
cisively. 

"  The  convict,  as  you  call  him,  was 
not  guilty.      He  was  punished  unjustly." 

"  That  may  be,"  more  dogmatically, 
as  Lizzy  appeared  to  yield.  "  But  your 
own  common  sense  must  teach  you  that 
five  years  of  prison  life  would  render  him 
unfit  for  an  hour's  companionship  with 
women  of  our  position.     Think  of  the 


vileness  which  he  must  have  drawn  in 
from  the  very  air  !  And  /  think  a  man 
should  be  as  pure  and  carefully  taught 
and  religious  as  a  woman.  Like  my  un- 
cle, for  instance.  You  need  not  say  a 
word,  Lizzy.  Give  the  unfortunate  man 
money,  or  whatever  kindness  you  please  ; 
but  if  you  lower  yourself  by  associating 
with  him,  for  however  short  a  time,  you 
are  unjust  to  Mr.  Van  Zeldt,  whose  wife 
you  will  some  time  be." 

"  I  will  never  be  his  wife  !  And  for 
the  unfortunate  man,  Honora — "  Lizzy 
stopped  abruptly,  the  indignant,  speech- 
less tears  rushing  into  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  the  girl  who  had  usurped  Dal- 
las' place ;  scanning  fiercely  the  delicate 
figure,  the  flushed,  high-bred  face,  and 
the  sunshine  all  about  her.  "You  would 
give  him  money  and  kindness  .''     You  !" 

Honora  drew  back  quickly  as  if  she 
had  been  struck,  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  "You  forget  yourself,  Eliza- 
beth," she  said,  gently.  ■'  I  will  leave 
you  to  rest  a  while,"  and  went  quickly 
out  of  the  room,  without  suffering  her  to 
reply ;  while  Lizzy  sat  down  on  her  stool 
again,  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees, 
her  back  to  the  window,  that  she  might 
not  see  the  dainty  equipage  and  the  ra- 
diant, picturesque  little  heiress  driving 
off  triumphant.  She  muttered  to  herself 
something  about  bigotry  and  Pharisaism, 
and  then  she  turned  so  that  she  could 
look  into  the  mirror ;  and,  twisting  up 
her  hair  and  taking  off  her  collar  to  leave 
the  yellow  crowsfeet  in  her  throat  bare,, 
she  studied  her  own  age  and  ugliness, 
almost  forgetting  Dallas.  She  yawned 
nervously,  chafed  her  wrists,  cold  and 
hot  shivers  creeping  out  from  one  spot 
in  her  side  through  her  whole  body,  weak 
tears  dribbling  over  her  cheeks  uncon- 
sciously ;  going,  in  short,  through  the 
whole  process  by  which  nature  seeks  to 
relieve  hysteric  women  of  pain  which 
might  else  be  mortal. 

And  Lizzy's  hfe  had  suffered  an  ampu- 
tation that  day  worse  for  a  woman  than  the 
loss  of  leg  or  arm.  Back  yonder,  in  the 
youth  to  which  she  had  looked  steadily  for 
years,  there  was  a  gap  never  to  be  filled. 
Moonlight  and  ebbing  tide  and  the  voice 
whose  sorcery  had  made  enchantment  of 


DALLAS    GALBRAITIL 


107 


them,  and  all  that  these  things  meant  to 
her,  were  gone  for  ever.  Instead,  there 
was  coarse,  every-day  sand,  a  silly  girl 
and  a  vulgar  braggart. 

Yet,  underneath  all,  there  was  deeper 
dread  of  another  loss.  The  people  at 
Manasquan  had  not  seen  her  for  five 
years  :  would  they  all  think  her  homely 
and  middle-aged  ? 

Perhaps  Jim  \^an  Zeldt  had  met  "other 
and  different  women." 

Presently  she  shook  out  her  mass  of 
hair  until  the  sun  touched  it :  it  was 
finer  and  heavier  than  Mrs.  Duffield's — 
than  even  Madam  Galbraith's  magnificent 
gray  mane  ;  and  her  skin,  too,  as  Hon- 
ora  said,  was  smooth  as  a  child's,  passing 
her  forefinger  over  her  cheek.  After  all, 
Honora  was  an  affectionate,  fine-natured 
little  thing,  toned  on  too  high  a  key  by 
those  foolish  old  people,  but  with  won- 
derfully just  perceptions  for  her  years. 
She  was  sorry  she  had  vexed  her.  It  was 
not  her  fault  that  she  had  taken  Dallas' 
place,  and  as  for  her  antipathy  to  what 
she  chose  to  consider  vulgar  and  vile, 
the  child  had  sucked  in  such  prejudices 
with  her  mother's  milk:  they  were  a  part 
of  her  as  much  as  her  blood  or  voice :  she 
would  never  lose  them  while  she  lived. 

Honora,  meanwhile,  being  angry, 
walked  her  ponies  at  a  funeral  pace, 
aggravating  to  them  and  herself  She 
was  not  going  to  be  suspected  of 
venting  her  temper  on  them  !  Her  un- 
cle, coming  through  a  cornfield  up  to 
the, road,  thought  she  would  make  a  cu- 
rious study  for  an  artist  as  she  passed 
through  the  solitary  landscape,  sitting 
erect  in  the  low  chaise  in  her  odd,  furred 
costume,  the  reins  loose  in  her  hands, 
her  face  fixed  and  intent.  He  had  never 
seen  the  power  in  the  child's  face  before. 
She  was  a  something  singularly  discord- 
ant and  out  of  harmony  with  the  faded 
November  day,  in  which  both  the  chilly 
earth  and  sky  betrayed  their  weariness 
and  lack  of  strength.  The  fanciful  old 
man  thought  that  the  girl  might  have 
better  typified  some  cool  spring  morn- 
ing, behind  whose  faint,  beautiful  heats 
and  dews  lay  prophecy  of  all  the  passion 
and  storms  of  the  year  to  come.  He 
leaned  over  the  fence  unnoticed,  marking 


the  nervous  strength  of  her  grasp,  the 
broad,  white  forehead,  the  steady,  bril- 
liant eyes,  the  red  heat  on  her  cheeks  that 
burned  and  faded  with  her  thoughts  :  read- 
ing, as  a  skillful  botanist  would  in  a  yet 
flowerless  weed,  possibilities  of  which 
the  plant  itself  knew  nothing  and  which 
perhaps  might  never  be  developed. 

As  for  Honora,  she  was  only,  con- 
scious that  the  world  had  turned  the 
wrong  side  to  her  to-day,  like  a  grand 
piece  of  embroidery  of  which  she  saw 
only  the  knots  and  tangled  ends  of 
threads,  or  like  a  wonderful  harmony, 
whose  shrill  treble  and  dissonant  bass 
only  reached  her.  In  church,  or  after 
reading  certain  books,  it  was  very  easy 
to  plan  out  a  part  for  herself  in  it  that 
would  be  like  a  sweet,  perfect  symphony  ; 
oh,  very  easy:  she  was  quite  sure,  if  she 
had  the  chance,  she  was  capable  to-day 
of  any  of  the  heroic  acts  of  greatly  good 
women  from  Madam  Roland  down. 

But  when  she  came  out  of  her  shell  for  a 
moment,  and  was  even  as  good  and  self- 
reliant  as  other  girls,  see  the  miserable 
muddles  into  which  she  ran !  Madam 
Galbraith  scolded  her,  or  Mr.  Dour 
made  absurd  love  to  her,  or  Lizzy  in- 
sulted her  gratuitously,  or — and  then  the 
angry  heat  faded  into  a  more  meaning 
pallor.  That  any  convict  who  had  been 
in  contact  for  years  with  thieves  and 
murderers  should  boast  of  the  touch  of 
her  hand!  "It  counted  for  much  to 
him."  There  had  been  a  meaning  smile 
on  Lizzy's  face  when  she  said  this,  that 
maddened  her:  her  pity  must  have 
made  her  beside  herself,  not  to  see 
that  the  man  was  young.  Honora, 
alone  on  the  road,  took  off  her  glove 
and  wiped  her  little  white  fingers  vehe- 
mently. After  this  she  would  live  to 
herself  Nobody  understood  her  but 
her  uncle,  or  if  any  one  came  in  her  way 
who  seemed  worth  knowing — as  a  mere 
study  of  human  nature — they  took  no 
note  of  her.  Not  as  much  as  if  she 
were  a  bit  of  coal  or  a  root,  and  went 
away,  leaving  the  dull,  commonplace 
world  just  as  it  was  before.  There  was 
small  room  for  heroism  or  grand,  sweet 
symphonies  of  lives  there !  Plod  on, 
plod  on  to  the  end. 


loS 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


But  Honora  had  tried  the  world  through 
only  nineteen  clean,  sweet-aired  years : 
her  melancholy  and  despair  were,  after 
all,  rather  appetizing:  a  not  unwholesome 
training  with  which  Nature  ordinarily 
exercises  the  brains  of  girls.  She  suf- 
fered her  ponies  to  break  into  a  trot, 
which  grew  faster  and  faster  as  they 
reached  a  level  stretch  of  road,  both 
her  eyes  and  theirs  beginning  to  sparkle. 
Then  the  sun  came  out  behind  the  watery 
yellow  sky :  presently  she  halted,  detect- 
ing an  odd  change  in  the  scents  of  the 
stubble-fields  :  then  she  drove  up  to  the 
rocks  to  reach  a  flaming  branch  of  a 
gum-tree,  taking  off  her  cap  to  put  in  a 
leaf  or  two.  The  bit  of  color  suited  her 
altered  mood  :  the  road  being  lonely,  she 
sang  to  herself  some  broken  snatches 
of  a  cheery  song  to  which  the  flashing 
hoofs  of  the  ponies  kept  time.  She 
reached  the  mile-post  in  the  road  where 
it  separated — a  by-way  turning  lone- 
somely  up  into  the  hills,  while  the  com- 
mon broad  plank-road  went  straight  down 
to  the  village. 

Honora  drew  her  reins  and  hesitated. 
She  was  in  no  mood  for  the  village  wo- 
men's questions  or  gossip  ;  or,  perhaps 
(still  lashing  herself  for  her  sins),  she 
was  not  fit  for  it.  She  had  better  live 
alone  in  future,  as  far  as  was  possible. 
The  solitary  mountain  road,  shut  in  by 
leafless  hickory  woods,  tempted  her.  She 
waited,  uncertain,  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  into  it ;  changing,  it  may  be,  as 
she  did  so,  the  whole  current  of  her  life. 
For,  jogging  down  the  path,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  advance,  rode  Laddoun  ; 
and  when  he  saw  her  coming  far  behind 
him,  he  drew  into  the  shelter  of  the 
bushes  on  one  side  and  waited  for  her. 
He  had  set  his  face  to  California  on 
Iea\-ing  Lizzy.  His  game  was  up  at  the 
Stone-post  Farm,  with  her  there  to  pro- 
claim him  a  cheat  and  forger  to  the  old 
people.  Galbraith  might  play  out  the 
play  as  suited  him.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  his  inn,  there  to  take  passage  in  the 
evening  coach  for  New  York,  when  he 
saw  the  glittering  wheels  and  fiery  black 
ponies  coming  swiftly  up  the  road,  and 
the  slight  gray  figure  guiding  them. 

He  only  meant,  when  he  drew  oflF,  be- 


ing a  connoisseur  in  women,  to  treat 
himself  to  a  farewell  look  at  the  girl, 
who  had  a  witchery  and  freshness  about 
her  beside  which  mere  beauty  was  tame. 
But  in  the  moment  of  waiting,  a  sudden 
inspiration  came  to  him — a  scheme  which 
he  welcomed  as  complete  and  sure  of 
success.  Now,  Laddoun  was  a  con- 
firmed theatre-goer ;  his  brain  was  full 
of  hackneyed  plots  ;  the  garish  light  of 
the  stage  colored  all  his  ideas  as  thor- 
oughly as  religion  would  those  of  Honora. 
When  he  fell  on  this  plan,  therefore,  ut- 
terly melodramatic  and  impracticable  to 
anybody  else,  he  took  a  firmer  seat  in 
his  saddle,  and  set  his  hat  confidently 
upon  his  oily  curls  again,  his  sanguine 
face  beaming  with  delight  and  self-com- 
placency. 

In  the  brief  space  which  elapsed  be- 
fore Honora's  chaise  came  up  abreast 
with  him,  he  had  to  elaborate  his  plan. 
Given,  a  mystery  and  the  chance  of  being 
a  heroine,  and  any  woman  living  was  ready 
to  throw  herself  soul  and  body  into  the 
part :  he  would  tell  the  girl  the  secret  of 
Galbraith's  birth,  and  either  out  of  love 
of  romance  or  the  chance  of  winning  Dal- 
las, and  so  saving  a  share  of  the  spoils 
for  herself,  she  would  seek  the  boy  out. 

"  Let  him  meet  her  again,"'  thought 
Laddoun,  "  and  the  work's  done.  I  saw 
how  he  held  himself  as  with  an  iron 
curb  at  the  thought  of  her  yesterday. 
Slow,  cold  fellows  like  Dallas  come  to  a 
white  heat  under  a  woman's  influence, 
which  men  like  me  never  reach.  Let 
him  be  fairly  in  love  with  the  girl,  and, 
with  all  his  boasted  honesty,  I'll  wager 
there'll  be  no  word  spoken  of  Albany  to 
the  Galbraiths  !  That  httle  episode 
will  sink  out  of  the  young  man's  remem- 
brance as  if  a  volcano  swallowed  it.  So? 
so .''  When  they  have  been  married  a 
few  months,  it  will  be  time  for  me,  with 
that  bit  of  knowledge  in  my  hand,  to 
put  on  the  screws." 

Honora  came  closer :  the  Colonel,  un- 
seen, watched  her  through  the  hickory 
boughs.  She  seemed  very  untainted 
and  childlike  to  the  jaded  roud  ;  and 
her  face,  or  the  healthy  mountain  air  or 
the  pleasant  sunshine  about  him,  gave 
him  a  sudden  twinge  of  disgust  for  the 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


109 


job  he  had  taken  in  hand.  "  I'd  better 
be  otf  to  the  ranches  and  McGill,  and 
let  the  dirty  work  alone."  But  the  next 
moment  brought  a  subtler  counselor. 
"  Where's  the  harm  ?  Dallas  is  a  clever 
dog  and  I'm  throwing  a  fortune  and  a 
good  wife  at  his  feet.  There's  nobody 
else  would  do  it  for  him.  Curse  it.  if 
I  think  he  deserves  it  at  my  hands  ! 
Wouldn't  drink  with  me  when  I  took 
him  out  of  the  very  gutter,  eh  ?  Curse 
it,  if  1  haven't  a  mind  to  throw  up  the 
whole  business  and  let  him  shift  for  him- 
self!  If  I  do  bring  him  in  such  a  haul 
as  this,  he'll  hardly  begrudge  me  my — 
commission.  No :  Dall's  not  mean. 
Commission  :  that's  what  it  is." 

By  the  time  the  ponies  passed  him, 
therefore,  in  a  slow  trot,  for  the  descent 
was  steep,  it  was  with  the  gracious 
feeling  of  a  lordly  benefactor,  and  quite 
the  benign  air  of  one,  that  he  sallied  out 
to  overtake  them. 

"  You  drive  well,  Miss  Dundas,"  bow- 
ing to  his  saddle  as  he  came  up  beside 
her.  "  Your  finger  is  as  gentle  and 
steady  as  a  man's  on  the  rein." 

Honora  had  given  a  start  of  annoy- 
ance at  the  first  sight  of  him,  but  she 
bowed  civilly.  "  I  have  always  been  ac- 
customed to  horses,"  she  said,  formally, 
drawing  back  to  one  side  of  the  narrow 
lane  and  motioning  for  him  to  pass  her 
— a  motion  to  which  the  Colonel  was 
blind,  though  he  smiled  under  his  mous- 
tache, reining  in  his  horse  close  by  her 
seat. 

••  You  are  a  lover  of  nature,  I  see  ?" 
with  a  profound  respect  in  his  tone  and 
manner  which  was  unaffected.  "  So  am 
I — so  am  I.  Though  the  zest  of  the 
matter  to  me  is,  that  we  can  put  our 
hand  on  mountains  and  sea  and  say, 
'The  lord  of  this  is  man.'  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  the  girth  of  the  ofF-horse — it 
is  a  httle  loose.     Permit  me  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  secure,  I  think,"  said 
Miss  Dundas,  dryly. 

Laddoun  was  silent  a  moment,  then 
began  a  fresh  attack.  "What  magnifi- 
cent pasturage  this  is  !  I  suppose  you 
do  not  know  whether  it  is  included  in 
the  Galbraith  domain  ?  The  estate  which 
you    will    inherit,    Miss    Dundas,"  with 


another  bow,  "is  larger  than  many  a 
German  duchy,  did  you  know  ?" 

"  No,  I  did  not  know.  The  land  is 
my  uncle's."  Honora's  brows  were  con- 
tracting :  her  temper  would  bear  but 
little  strain  this  morning.  Besides,  all 
the  formal  reserve  in  which  she  liad  been 
reared  protested  against  this  forced 
companionship ;  and  there  was  about 
Laddoun  that  insensible  air  of  impurity 
which  surrounds  some  men,  which  wo- 
men breathe  with  difficulty.  He  made 
one  or  two  efforts  to  talk  to  her,  and  was 
met  by  cold  and  colder  monosyllables. 
His  black  eyes  glittered  at  the  un- 
wonted rebuff:  he  fingered  nervously 
the  gold  eagles  strung  over  his  breast. 
There  was  no  use  in  delay,  nor  reason 
why  he  should  submit  to  the  insolence 
of  this  petted  girl :  his  business  with 
her  could  be  brought  to  a  speedy  end : 
a  few  sharp  words  would  settle  it. 

"You  prefer  that  I  should  ride  on, 
Miss  Dundas  ?"  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice. 

Honora  blushed  when  her  rudeness 
was  thus  brought  before  her.  "  I  was 
out  of  temper  this  morning,  I'm  afraid," 
forcing  a  courteous  smile,  "  and  I  came 
here  for  a  solitary  drive  to  cure  myself 
I  am  unattended,  as  you  see." 

"Yes,  I  saw  that,"  coolly.  "You  will 
be  the  better  able  to  attend  to  a  few 
words  which  I  have  to  say  to  you." 
He  turned  his  horse  rapidly,  so  as  to  face 
her,  and  laid  his  fat  hand  on  the  reins. 

Her  horses  stopped.  Honora  gave 
one  quick  glance  down  the  lonely  road, 
up  the  mountain-side,  growing  slowly 
deathly  pale.  Then  she  sat  erect  and 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye.  "  I  know 
of  no  subject  in  common  between  Colonel 
Laddoun  and  me.  If  there  be  one,  this 
is  not  the  place  to  discuss  it,"  she  man- 
aged to  say,  though  her  heart  was  quak- 
ing horribly  under  the  Polish  jacket,  and 
her  own  voice  deafened  her. 

"This  is  the  place  I  choose,"  he  re- 
joined, insolently.  He  stopped  in  genu- 
ine admiration,  magnetized  by  the  wide 
eyes,  dark  with  terror  and  defiance,  and 
the  colorless  face  which  the  extremity  of 
the  moment  had  vivified  with  a  rare  and 
tragic  beauty. 


DALLAS    GALBRALTH. 


"  I  did  not  think  there  was  so  much 
power  in  you,"  he  said,  good-humoredly, 
after  a  pause.  "  Now,  see.  Miss  Dun- 
das,"  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  Httl'e 
carriage.  "  There's  no  need  to  be  fright- 
ened. I'm  one  that  goes  straight  to  the 
point.  I  have  a  hard  blow  to  give  you, 
but  I'll  make  it  as  easy  as  I  can.  I 
mean  well  in  the  end  by  you,  as  you'll 
acknowledge  some  day." 

She  motioned  for  him  to  go  on,  not 
speaking. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  a  wholesome  lesson 
for  you.  You  carry  yourself  in  a  way 
hardly  befitting  society  in  a  country 
where  there  is 'no  such  thing  as  rank. 
You  learned  that  from  your  uncle,  I  sup- 
pose. But  that  air  of  distance  and  hau- 
teur wouldn't  go  down  with  an  old  trav- 
eler like  George  Laddoun  !"  with  an  an- 
gry pause.  "  And  it  is  especially  unbe- 
coming in  you,  because  you  base  it  on  a 
heritage  to  which  you  have  no  claim. 
You  are  the  heir  of  the  Galbraiths,  the 
country  people  say.  But  if  Dallas  Gal- 
braith  should  come  to  light,  what  are 
you  then  ?" 

"  Dallas  Galbraith  ?"  with  a  long,  be- 
wildered breath.   "  The  boy  who  is  dead  ?" 

"  What  are  you  then  ?"  persistently. 
"A  poor  relation  reared  by  charity. 
Dallas  Galbraith  is  not  dead,"  his  voice 
rising.  "And  I — George  Laddoun — 
know  the  secret  of  his  life.  He  has 
been  left  to  work  in  the  coal-pits  at 
Scranton  ;  to —  But  the  rest  of  his  life 
doesn't  matter.  He  has  suffered  from 
hunger  and  cold  while  you  slept  soft  and 
lived  warm,  holding  his  place — a  place 
which  even  now  he  won't  rob  you  of, 
humble  fool  that  he  is.  If  you  were  a 
man,  now  that  you  know  the  truth,  you 
would  bring  the  boy  back  to  his  place. 
But  the  usual  rules  of  honor  don't  obtain 
with  lovely  woman,"  with  an  uneasy 
sneer,  for  he  began  to  fear  he  had 
counted  too  largely  on  her  readiness  for 
heroism. 

Miss  Dundas  paid  no  more  attention 
to  his  stream  of  words  than  to  the  neigh- 
ing of  her  ponies.  She  did  not  seem 
conscious,  either,  that  he  had  ceased  to 
speak  and  was  watching  keenly  her  pale 
face  and  uncertain  breathing. 


"  Do  you  mean,"  turning  to  him  at 
last,  and  speaking  slowly,  "that  Tom 
Galbraith's  son  is  alive — that  I  can  bring 
him  back  to  my  uncle  ?" 

"  You've  Colonel  Laddoun's  word  for 
it  that  he  is  alive.  You  can  bring  him 
back  to-day,  if  you  mean  to  do  it." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  gave 
the  reins  a  fierce  litde  jerk,  breaking  the 
horses  into  a  break-neck  pace  down  the 
hill,  bidding  him  follow  by  a  commanding 
glance.  The  girl,  Laddoun  saw,  scarcely 
knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  not 
much  better  fitted  than  a  baby  to  master 
the  emergency  in  which  she  was  placed. 
He  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  find,  there- 
fore, when  he  had  urged  his  horse  again 
abreast  of  her,  that  the  tears  were  run- 
ning down  her  cheeks,  and  that  she  was 
brushing  them  off  and  lashing  the  ponies 
alternately  with  feeble  strokes.  '•  They'i-e 
so  slow  !"  choking  back  a  sob.  "They 
don't  heed  me  a  bit  to-day." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  inquire 
where  to  go.  Miss  Dundas  ?"  smother- 
ing a  laugh,  for  her  energy  had  put  him 
in  high  good-humor.  "  We'll  take  it 
leisurely.  There's  ample  time  to  find 
Galbraith.  He  has  waited  all  his  life  : 
an  hour  or  two  more  won't  matter,  I 
reckon." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  /n'm.  I  know 
nothing  about  him.  But  he  will  go  to 
the  house  if  he  is  so  near,  and  I  want 
to  bring  him  to  my  uncle.  I  thought, 
when  you  told  me.  What  if  /  could  take 
Tom's  son  to  him  ?  That  is,  if  you  are 
telling  me  the  truth." 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  Miss 
Dundas,"  gently,  looking  steadily  into  the 
glowing,  wet  litlle  face.  The  look  of  pa- 
thetic tenderness  in  it  belonged  to  a  world 
outside  of  Laddoun's  experience.  No- 
body but  the  old  man  who  was  so  dear 
to  her  had  ever  seen  it  there  before.  He 
did  not  speak  to  her  again  as  they  rode 
on  for  some  distance  together.  It  touch- 
ed even  him  that  her  sole  thought  at  the 
time  should  be  of  the  only  friend  and 
companion  she  had  ever  had. 

"  I  suppose,  now,  the  death  of  his  boy 
was  the  one  great  loss  of  your  uncle's 
Hfe  ?"  ventured  the  Colonel,  sympathiz- 
ingly. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


Honora  started  and  looked  at  him,  on 
guard  on  the  instant.  "  I  never  have 
heard  my  uncle  speak  of  his  son,"  she 
said,  quietly,  gathering  up  the  reins  into 
a  steadier  hold.  The  road  which  they 
traversed  had  narrowed  into  a  mere  lane, 
which  opened,  a  few  rods  further  on,  into 
a  wide  stretch  of  pasture-land  sloping 
down  to  the  creek.  On  the  other  side 
tlie  hills  were  cut  by  a  winding  cattle- 
path.      Honora  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go  ?"  she  asked,  un- 
easily. "  Mr.  Galbraith  has  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  village  at  noon,  and  if  he 
sliould  meet  his  grandson,  he  will  cer- 
tainly know  him.     I  shall  be  too  late." 

'.'  Dallas  is  not  in  the  village.  Be- 
sides, I  cannot  go  with  you  to  find  him 
at  all,  Miss  Dundas.  We're  not  on  good 
terms,  exactly.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
he  has  treated  me  so  shabbily  that  any 
other  man  than  I  would  give  him  the 
go-by  for  Hfe.  I'm  going  to  Cahfornia 
to-morrow,  but  I  thought  I'd  do  him  this 
good  turn  before  I  left.  That's  my 
way." 

Honora  looked  at  him  scrutinizingly, 
but  made  no  reply.  He  began  to  doubt 
whether  the  little  girl  who  guided  her 
horses  with  such  a  firm  hand  was  alto- 
gether the  baby  he  had  supposed,  or 
whether,  if  her  uncle  had  not  been 
brought  into  question,  she  would  not 
have  been  plucky  enough  to  master  any 
crisis  in  life.  He  had  a  mean  desire  to 
bring  out  some  fresh  emotion,  to  play 
on  her  again  as  on  an  instrument. 

"  Say,  Miss  Dundas  !  You  are  re- 
garded as  the  heir  of  the  old  people 
j'onder.  Your  position  will  be  altered. 
You've  forgotten  your  own  part  in  the 
matter." 

"  No  ;   I  have  not  forgotten,"  calmly. 

"  Umph  !"  after  a  pause.  "  Will  you 
go  on  alone  to  find  Dallas  ?" 

"Alone  I  Yes.  Where  is  he  ?  How 
shall  I  know  him  ?  I  wish  to  take  him 
back  before  four  o'clock  if  possible.  My 
uncle  will  be  alone  then." 

"  By  George  !  You  do  mean  to  block 
your  own  game,  then  ?"  with  a  burst  of 
admiration.  "  There's  no  compulsion, 
you  understand  ?  Dall  '11  never  claim 
the  place  unless  you  go  after  him." 


"  Where  am  I  to  go.  Colonel  Lad- 
doun  ?"   coldly.      "  My  time  is  short." 

"  So  is  mine.  I've  to  reach  the  lower 
ford  inn  by  noon.  You  know  Dallas," 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face.  "  You  met 
him  once  by  the  quarry  in  the  moun- 
tains. A  tall,  powerful  young  fellow, 
with  his  mind  set  on  slates  and  coal, 
I'll  wager,  far  more  than  on  a  pretty 
face." 

Miss  Dundas  drew  the  reins  sud- 
denly, so  sharply  that  the  ponies  came 
to  a  dead  halt.  She  betrayed  no  other 
sign  of  emotion.  But  she  did  not  speak. 
'•  That  was  Dallas  Galbraith,  was  it  ? 
Dallas  Galbraith  ?"  she  said,  at  last,  to 
herself 

Laddoun  did  not  answer  her.  He 
was  peering  into  her  dark  eyes  breath- 
lessly. So  much  of  his  chances  for  life 
hung  on  the  thought  going  on  just  now 
in  this  silly  girl's  brain.  But  the  face 
was  as  inscrutable  as  Dallas'  ov,-n. 
These  Galbraiths  all  had  the  rare  know- 
ledge of  when  not  to  speak  or  act — a 
tremendous  staying-power,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  turf  Laddoun  drew  back, 
and  put  his  horse  in  a  trot,  baffled.  The 
ponies  kept  even  pace  with  him. 

"You  will  take  the  road  to  the  right," 
he  said,  when  they  came  to  the  end  of 
the  lane,  turning  to  her.  "  That  will  lead 
you  to  the  Indian  Queen.  I  must  bid 
you  good-bye,  here.  Miss  Dundas.  Per- 
haps I  may  meet  you  again  before  next 
year — who  knows  ?  But  I'm  off  to  the 
gold  regions  now :  I'll  let  things  take 
their  course :  I  can  neither  let  nor  for- 
ward them  any  further.  You'll  find 
Dallas  Galbraith  at  the  Indian  Queen." 

Miss  Dundas  bowed — a  statelier  bow 
than  she  ever  could  have  learned  from 
Madam  Galbraith. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
Colonel  Laddoun.  You  have  done  Mr. 
Galbraith  a  great  service,  and  I  can 
answer  for  his  gratitude  if  you  ever 
choose  to  claim  it.  I  will  inform  my 
uncle  of  the  place  where  you  say  he  will 
find  his  grandson." 

"You  will  not  go  for  Dallas  ?" 

"  No  ;"  and  with  a  sudden  motion  of 
farewell  she  turned  her  horses  toward 
the    open    common    and    drove    rapidly 


PASS/JVG   BEYOND. 


away.  Laddoun  looked  after  her  in  ap- 
palled dismay :  then  he  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh : 

"  By  the  Lord  !  The  fellow's  more 
to  her  than  I  guessed !  She  is  afraid 
to  meet  him  !" 

The  air  grew  fresh  to  Honora  when 
she  had  left  him,  but  the  short  saffron 
grass  and  zig-zag  fences  whirled  past  her 
blinded  eyes.  She  heard  with  a  feeble 
terror  voices  approaching.  She  was  not 
sure  of  herself — of  a  look  or  word  which 
she  would  give :  the  very  house  at  home 
and  the  hfe  there  this  morning  seemed 
far  off  to  her,  and  never  to  be  regained. 

One  thing  she  knew.  She  had  a  word 
to  say  to  her  uncle  which  would  heal 
that  old  wound  in  his  soul  for  ever.  No 
one  but  she  ever  had  known  what  his 
dead  son  had  been  to  him.     She  was 


glad  that  she  had  never  spoken  that 
son's  name  to  him.  If  she  could  have 
been  the  one  to  bring  his  boy  to  him  ! — 

But —  And  Honora,  being  alone,  let 
fall  the  reins  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  from  her 
own  consciousness  the  burning  heat 
that  rose  from  her  bosom  up  to  her  fore- 
head. 

Presently  she  turned  her  ponies  swift- 
ly into  the  hill  road.  It  was  a  lonely 
and  direct  route  toward  the  Galbraith 
house.  She  must  lose  no  time  in  find- 
ing her  uncle  there. 

But  fate  was  against  her ;  for  when 
she  had  driven  some  fifty  rods  into  the 
narrow  defile  she  looked  up,  and  there, 
coming  rapidly  toward  her  in  his  work- 
man's blouse  of  gray  flannel,  was  Dallas 
Galbraith. 


a^       II         II         U>        It       TT 


PART     VI. 


CHAPTER    XVHI. 

WHEN  she  saw  him,  Honora  pulled 
the  ponies'  heads  round  to  turn 
them  backward  ;  anything  to  escape  out 
of  his  sight !  Then,  thinking  of  her 
uncle,  she  turned  them  directly  back 
again,  and  suffered  them  to  go  on  slowly 
toward  him,  leaning  back,  desperately 
resolved  to  let  matters  take  what  course 
they  pleased.  Then  she  pulled  them  up 
to  a  dead  halt,  at  which  one  of  the  poor, 
patient  things  looked  round  at  her  with 
mild  wonder ;  but  the  other,  who  better 
knew  the  young  woman's  ways,  only 
gave  a  cynical  neigh.  Dallas  was  com- 
ing nearer  :  she  had  the  light  of  her  new 
knowledge  in  which  to  see  him.  His 
gray  clothes  were  both  sleazy  and  dusty : 
as  for  his  face,  only  savage  strokes  of 
ill-fortune  could  have  cut  out  such  spare, 
controlled  features.  While  she  had  "  slept 
soft  and  lived  warm — " 

The  glittering  little  carriage  in  which 
she  sat,  feeling  herself  every  inch  a 
princess,  after  all,  was  his  :  the  jeweled 
whip  she  held  like  a  sceptre,  was  his. 
They  had  left  him  to  work  in  the  coal- 
pits at  Scranton,  while  she —  Her  very 
clothes  weighed  her  down  and  burned  in 
on  her  a  sense  of  imposture.  It  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.     She  threw 


the  reins  loose  and  scrambled  out  of  the 
chaise,  intending  to  go  to  him.  Instead, 
she  stopped  at  the  head  of  the  nearest 
pony  and  put  her  arms  about  its  neck. 

"Stand  still,  Babe,  dear!"  in  a  tone 
not  far  from  crying.  "  Don't  you  worry 
me.  I'm  worried  nearly  to  death." 
cramming  sugar,  with  which  her  pocket 
was  full,  into  its  mouth.  "  Stand  still,  I 
say ! "  drawing  off  and  stamping  her 
foot.  "  Don't  move  till  I  come  back  ; 
I'm  not  so  mean  but  that  something 
shall  obey  me  !"  at  which  Babe,  who 
happened  to  be  the  young  and  favorite 
one  of  the  two,  rubbed  his  nose  into 
her  palm,  sympathetically,  while  his 
wiser  brother  stamped  for  his  share  of 
sugar,  half  shutting  his  eyes,  sardoni- 
cally. 

The  little  gray  figure  fluttered  along 
the  road  with  the  desperate,  uncertain 
motion  of  a  partridge  scared  from  its 
nest.  There  was  a  fallen  sycamore  lying 
half  across  the  way,  filagreed  over  with 
yellow  and  black  lichen.  She  stopped 
beside  it,  holding  by  its  crumbling 
branches,  while  Dallas  came  nearer — 
hesitated — nearer — and  then  stood  close 
before  her.  The  lonely  mountain  lane, 
high-banked  and  hedged,  seemed  to  hold 
them  together  with  its  straightness  and 
silence  ;   the  wind  had  died  :    the  thin 


n4 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


sunshine  on  the  faded  grass  and  shelv- 
ing hill-cuts  waited.  The  hour,  for 
which  all  their  lives  before  had  been  but 
a  dull,  ticking  prelude,  struck  loud  and 
clear. 

If  Honora,  in  all  her  years  of  dream- 
ing, had  known  what  was  coming,  she 
could  have  been  ready  to  give  the  mo- 
ment its  dramatic  word  of  utterance. 
Many  a  time  afterward  through  her  life 
she  composed  the  proper  greeting  which 
she  ought  to  have  given  him.  As  it  was, 
she  put  out  one  hand  feebly  and  drew 
it  back  again  ;   and  finally — 

"Are  you  looking  for  fossils  and — 
things  .? "  she  said. 

Galbraitlr  put  his  hand  involuntarily 
to  the  empty  green  bag  which  was  slung 
on  his  back.  "  I  have  found  nothing," 
he  answered. 

He  had  found  nothing  for  days  until 
now ;  but  this  was  all  for  which  he  had 
looked.  Honora  was  a  very  different 
thing  to  Dallas  than  a  pure,  winning 
maiden  is  to  a  society-bred  lover.  So 
far,  remember,  he  had  humanized  his  life 
— not  his  life  him.  The  genial,  divine 
under-meaning  of  the  work-day  world 
begins  to  show  itself  to  most  young 
men  in  their  boyish  fun,  in  their  home- 
life,  in  their  glimpses  of  fairy-land 
through  theatres  and  circuses,  in  hymns 
(not  often  in  sermons),  and  later,  through 
their  love  of  women,  art,  society  ;  but  all 
these  had  always  been  shut  out  from 
him  in  the  coal-pits,  in  Manasquan  and 
in  Albany.  Honora,  and  the  wealthy, 
generous  life  which  framed  and  made 
a  background,  were  his  first  open 
glimpes  of  it :  they  seemed  to  contain 
all  that  he  had  missed  in  the  past  empty 
years.  She  held  in  her  hand  the  magic 
wine,  ready  to  give  him,  of  which  his 
life  had  been  drained. 

So  that  he  had  gone  about  now  for 
days  through  the  hill-roads,  in  the  hope 
of  finding  her,  with  much  of  the  same 
awed  longing,  I  fancy,  as  that  with 
which  the  first  of  the  earth's  people 
looked  to  meet  every  day  the  angels  who 
lived  in  the  near  but  unattainable  hea- 
ven. Only  that  a  great,  busy,  merry 
household  like  Madam  Galbraith's — cul- 
ture, books,  and  a  young  woman,  tempt- 


ing in  her  hidden  beauty  and  fragrance 
as  an  unsunned  rosebud — would  mean 
far  more  to  a  healthy,  strong-brained  man 
than  a  whole  sky-full  of  misty  angels 
and  rest.     As  they  ought  to  do. 

"  I  did  not  think  I  would  see  you 
again,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  am  going 
to-morrow.  I  did  not  think  I  would  see 
you  again.''  He  stood  far  off,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  gulf  between  them,  never 
to  be  crossed ;  but  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  the  untamable  pleasure  kind- 
ling in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'm  here  ;  but  I  did  not  come 
for  you,"  hastily.  "  I  was  going  home. 
Oh  !  that  is  not  what  I  wanted  to  say  ! " 
with  a  sudden  outburst.  "  I  mean  that 
I  know  who  you  are.  I  know  all.  You 
must  come  home." 

"  You  know  who  I  am  ?" 

"  Dallas — Dallas  Galbraith." 

"You  are  ill!  Sit  here,  on  this 
stone." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  fall,"  stiffly  erect, 
with  both  hands  on  the  sycamore  trunk  ; 
"but  I'm  worried.  The  sun  makes 
my  head  ache."  And  after  a  pause : 
"  It  was  unmaidenly  in  me  to  come  for 
you ;  but  the  ponies  turned  down  this 
road.      I  did  not  think  you  were  here." 

"  Why  ought  you  not  come  ?  You 
knew  who  I  was,  and  you  wanted  to  bring 
me  home.     That  was  right,  I  think." 

Honora,  looking  into  his  grave,  be- 
wildered face,  felt  her  modesty  in  some 
way  puerile  and  false.  "  Of  course  it 
was  right,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Just  as 
any  man  would  have  come  for  another." 

"  No,"  sharply  ;  "  God  knows,  not 
that !"  He  turned  away  and  walked 
hastily  down  the  road,  leaving  Miss  Dun- 
das  staring  after  him,  amazed.  The  slow 
fellow  was  beginning  to  reahze  what 
it  meant  that  she  knew  who  he  was.  If 
Laddoun  had  betrayed  him  out  of  sheer 
revenge,  he  had  told  her  the  damning 
secret  which  he  was  trying  to  put  out  of 
sight.  Then,  his  whole  life  was  blocked  ; 
all  chance  struck  from  him  of  home, 
work,  education,  and  tliat  something 
which  he  dared  not  name  ;  and,  instead, 
the  foul  load  to  carry  for  life  which  he 
had  borne  so  long  for  another. 

But   it  might  have  been   Lizzy :  she 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


115 


was  fond  and  foolish  :  she  might  have 
used  this  lovely  lady  as  a  lure  to  compel 
him  back. 

He  returned  with  quick  steps  and 
passionate  eyes.  He  had  not  seen  be- 
fore how  lovely  she  was.  She  had  taken 
off  her  cap,  and  the  damp  rings  of 
brown  hair  fell  loose  about  her  neck, 
framing  her  face.  There  was  no  gross 
heat  in  Dallas'  blood.  The  slight  maid- 
enly figure  leaning  against  the  yellow 
trunk  did  not  madden  him  as  it  might 
coarser  men,  nor  the  soft  rising  color  in 
her  mobile  face.  But  the  pure  wo- 
manly presence,  so  unknown  to  his  life, 
the  tenderness,  weakness,  the  very  silli- 
ness betrayed  in  her  eyes,  akin  to  that 
of  the  children  who  were  so  dear  to 
him,  wrung  his  heart  with  a  delirious  pain 
such  as  only  men  of  his  nature  can  feel. 
He  had  lived  so  much  with  men  that  the 
woman  in  Honora  was  a  new  revela- 
tion to  him  :  his  tliought  of  her  already 
began  to  change  him,  as  the  living  breath 
which  once  entered  into  the  nostrils  of 
the  dull  shape  of  clay,  and,  passing 
through  its  heavy  limbs,  made  it  a  man. 

Honora,  meanwhile,  had  been  nerving 
herself,  and  proposed  now  to  talk  to  him 
of  this  matter  in  the  exact  business-like 
tone  which  one  man  would  use  to  an- 
other. That  was  the  way  in  which  she 
should  have  begun. 

•'I  want  you  to  go  home  this  after- 
noon," she  said.  "My  uncle  will  be  in 
the  library.  You  must  go  directly  in  and 
say  to  him  :  '  I  am  Dallas  Galbraith.'  I 
meant  to  tell  him  first,  but — " 

"  How  do  you  know  me,  Miss  Dun- 
das  ?     Who  told  you  my  name  T' 

"  Colonel  Laddoun." 

Galbraith  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 
"  You  said,"  in  a  strained,  unnatural 
tone,  "that  you  'knew  all:'  what  did 
Laddoun  tell  you  of  me  .''" 

••  Only  that  you  had  worked  in  the 
coal-pits  at  Scranton,  and  had  led  a  hard 
life,  while  /  took  your  place  ;  that  3'ou 
would  not  make  yourself  known  ;  that 
you  were  going  with  Doctor  Pritchard 
never  to  come  back,  leaving  tne  to  de- 
fraud you  to  the  end,"  growing  more 
bitter  and  emphatic  as  she  went  on. 

Finding  that  Galbraith  stood  thought- 


ful, unmindful,  apparently,  of  her  assault 
on  herself,  she  added :  "  Colonel  Lad- 
doun is  gone.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
whom  I  would  choose  to  explain  any- 
thing. But  do  you  not  blame  me — do 
you  ?  You  can  understand  ?"  with  an 
unconscious  cadence  in  her  voice  which 
touched  him  with  an  electric  shock. 

"  I  understand.  How  could  I  blame 
you  ?  Colonel  Laddoun  is  gone,  you 
say  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  to  Cahfornia.  He  said,"  with 
an  arch  smile,  "that  you  had  treated  him 
shamefully  ill,  but  that  he  would  do  you 
this  good  turn  before  he  left.  I  think," 
confidentially,  "he  is  a  good-natured 
man,  after  all — "  her  look  finishing  the 
sentence  with  an  infinite  scope  of  mean- 
ing. 

"  Yes :  Laddoun  is  not  malicious," 
gravely.  "He  is  quite  capable  of  a 
generous  action.  And  he's  gone  !"  with 
a  deep  breath  of  relief  which  a  freed 
slave  might  give.  The  next  moment  he 
remembered  that  the  reHef  was  given  by 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  free  to  act  a 
lie,  to  hide  his  real  life  fi-om  this  girl  be- 
fore him  ;  but  he  choked  down  that  re- 
membrance. 

"  We  thought  you  were  dead,  you 
know,  when  I  was  given  your  place," 
Honora  urged  in  an  anxious  tone,  the 
idea  that  gnawed  her  conscience  assert- 
ing itself  again  in  the  first  pause.  "  I 
am  only  a  poor  girl :  Mr.  Galbraith's 
niece  ;  and  he  adopted  me.  I  did  not 
know  that  I  was  an  impostor.  Of 
course,"  lifting  her  head  slightly,  "  I  am 
of  as  good  a  family  as  the  Dours — that 
is,  yours  :  I  only  meant  I  had  no  money 
when  I  said  poor." 

"And  Madam  Galbraith  has  educated 
you  as  her  heir  ?  Kept  you  from  even 
the  sight  or  name  of  evil,  I  have 
heard  .•"' 

"Yes.  I  believe  I  have  been  differ- 
ently reared  from  other  girls.  She  is 
very  strict,  you  see — very  strict.  She 
does  not  understand  little  follies  and 
faults  which  we  weaker  people  have,  and 
she  counts  them  all  crime.  A  stain  is  a 
stain  to  her.  It  might  as  well  be  mur- 
der as  vulgarity  in  her  code."  Honora 
laughed   as    she    said   this.      She    was 


ii6 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


strangely  light-hearted  and  at  ease  al- 
ready with  her  cousin,  for  so  she  named 
him  to  herself.  It  seemed  as  if  they 
had  been  friends  long  ago.  Her  voice 
had  fallen  into  the  clear,  fine  accords 
with  which  no  one  but  her  uncle  was 
familiar,  and  her  eyes,  too,  rested  on  his 
with  the  magnetic  sense  of  ease  and 
kinship  which  had  only  belonged  hereto- 
fore to  her  old  friend. 

"  It  grows  late,"  she  said,  looking  un- 
easily up  at  the  sun.  "  Will  you  let  me 
drive  you  to  the  house — home,  I  mean  ? 
though  the  ponies  and  chaise  are  yours 
by  right,"  blushing  with  a  sudden  hu- 
mility. 

Dallas  laughed.  "That  Cinderella 
chariot  ?  The  ponies  would  turn  into 
mice  out  of  sheer  dismay  if  such  a  lum- 
bering weight  as  I  were  put  upon 
them." 

"Then  you  shall  walk  alongside," 
eagerly.  "It  is  not  a  great  distance. 
I  can  walk  five  miles  myself,  easily. 
You  must  keep  on  just  those  clothes. 
They  are  so  artistic,  so  picturesque,  so 
different  from  Mr.  Dour's  black  coats. 
What  if  Mr.  Dour  had  been  Tom  Gal- 
braith's  son !"  with  an  appalled  little 
grimace.  "  And  you  must  wait  outside 
of  the  library-door,  while  I  go  in — I  may 
go  in  and  tell  my  uncle  ?" 

Galbraith  smiled  and  came  closer, 
looking  down  into  the  excited,  flushed 
face  and  the  brown  eyes  which  grew 
darker  and  dimmer  as  she  went  on 
speaking : 

"  He  is  an  old  man — it  is  many  years 
since  his  son  died.  I  think  he  is  very 
fond  of  me.  I  would  like  to  go  in  and 
say,  'I  have  brought  you  Tom's  son!' 
I  have  done  so  Httle  to  please  him,  and 
he  has  been  very  fond  of  me."  She 
stopped  and  quietly  brushed  away  the 
tears  that  had  chased  the  smiles  alto- 
gether from  her  eyes. 

"But  Madam  Galbraith.?"  asked  Dal- 
las after  a  pause. 

Her  face  fell  with  sudden  dismay. 
« Oh  !  I  had  not  thought  of  her.  I 
have  not  planned  about  her,"  slowly. 
"  She  was  very  fond  of  her  son  Tom, 
but—" 

"  But  ?"     He  was  nearer  now.     She 


was  as  artless  and  open-hearted  as  Matt, 
he  thought.  But  he  certainly  never  had 
given  poor  Matt  the  tender,  amused 
smile  with  which  he  bent  over  her. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  those  clothes," 
she  said,  anxiously :  "  Madam  Galbraith 
does  not  care  for  the  picturesque  so  much. 
They  would  provoke  her  inquiry.  She 
likes  to  turn  people  over  and  over.  And 
then  she  would  find  out  how  poor  you 
have  been." 

"  She  will  know  that  I  have  worked 
in  the  coal-pits,"  soberly. 

"  Would — is  it  necessary  to  tell  her 
that  ?"  coloring ;  adding  hurriedly :  "  Un- 
derstand me  :  it  is  not  the  poverty  which 
would  enrage  her,  but  the  chance  that 
you  had  been  in  contact  with  vulgar  or 
vicious  people.  Her  own  son  was  very 
dear  to  her ;  but  when  he  fell  among 
thieves  of  his  own  choice,  she  passed 
him  by  on  the  other  side.  It  is  only 
fair  to  warn  you  of  your  dangers  in  the 
new  country,"  looking  up  at  him  earn- 
estly. 

Dallas  crumbled  the  scaly  bark  from 
the  trunk  that  lay  between  them,  looking 
at  the  ground  with  dreamy,  speculative 
eyes.  He  had  not  the  slightest  inten- 
tion to  put  his  foot  into  the  new  country 
of  which  she  talked.  He  was  going 
with  Pritchard  in  the  morning :  he  had 
not  swerved  from  that  purpose  for  a 
moment.  Honora  and  her  world  were 
not  for  him.  "Vulgar  and  vicious."  He, 
the  son  and  heir,  was  an  illiterate  boor : 
the  very  names  of  their  commonest  books 
were  an  unknown  language  to  him : 
there  was  no  form  of  vice  with  which 
he  had  not  been  in  loathsome  contact 
for  years.  He  meant  to  come  back 
from  Pritchard's  expedition  a  changed 
man.  Then  he  would  go  among  them, 
concealing  nothing  of  the  past.  But, 
meantime,  there  was  a  subtle  enchant- 
ment in  this  unattainable  world  in  which 
she  lived.  He  could  not  help  but  stand 
at  the  gate  and  look  in.  This  sun  was 
bright  and  this  chilly  wind  bracing:  her 
clear,  sympathetic  voice,  her  old-fash- 
ioned, awkward,  winning  gestures,  her 
foolish  eagerness,  were  hke  alluring 
music  sent  out  to  tempt  him  to  enter 
It  could  do  no  one  harm  if  he  stood  and 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


117 


looked  in  a  while.  The  very  careless 
talk,  this  surface-touching  of  matters 
which  imported  so  mucli  to  him,  had 
in  it  something  new  and  cheerful :  a 
healthy  liglit  on  what  had  before  been 
stern  and  hard. 

But  if  he  came  back  again  the  man 
he  hoped  to  make  himself — what  then  ? 
Would  he  ever  be  clean  in  her  eyes  ? 

••  I  can  understand  Madam  Galbraith's 
prejudices.  But  you — have  you  the 
same  ?"  he  said,  and  then  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. The  question  mattered  too  much 
to  him  to  be  dragged  out  so  soon 
and  lightly.  But  Honora  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  laughed: 

••  I  go  farther  than  she  does,  perhaps. 
Shall  we  walk  toward  the  chaise  ?  Jack 
thinks  it  is  time  for  me  to  go.  It's  a 
terrible  thing  to  confess,  but  I  will  tell 
you.  honestly,  I  have  an  antipathy  to  the 
poor.  Yes.  It's  the  fashion  now  to  be 
radical  and  enthusiastic  over  negroes 
and  unwashed  white  people.  I'd  be 
kind  to  them,  and  give  any  money  to  feed 
and  educate  them  until  they  stood  where 
I  do.  But  in  the  meantime  I'll  keep 
my  own  hands  and  breath  clean,"  with 
a  wayward  motion  of  the  delicate  little 
body. 

"If  you  were  not  so  young,  or  if  you 
had  been  down  in  the  pit,  you  would 
find  it  no  matter  for  jest,"  said  Dallas, 
roughly,  thinking  not  of  himself  so  much 
as  the  two  or  three  innocent-faced  chil- 
dren whom  he  had  meant  to  rescue  from 
the  very  door  of  hell.  It  seemed  to 
him,  while  he  stood  listening  to  this 
sweet  low  voice,  he  was  unfaithful  to 
them.  He  drew  involuntarily  away  from 
her. 

Honora,  startled  and  irritated,  turned 
to  him,  with  a  dignity  which  in  itself  she 
felt  ought  to  settle  the  matter : 

"  I  speak  with  more  knowledge  than 
you  think,  perhaps.  It  is  not  prejudice 
with  7ne — it  is  conviction.  My  expe- 
rience is,  that  just  in  proportion  as  a 
man's  outer  life  is  stinted  and  degraded, 
his  tastes  lower  and  grow  coarse  and 
his  feelings  are  blunted.  It  is  not  the 
educated  class  who  beat  their  wives  and 
fill  the  cock-pits  down  in  the  village,  or 
who  crowded  yelling  about  the  gallows 


in  the  county  town  last  week  !"  with  a 
decisive  pursing  of  her  mouth  which 
implied  that  that  argument  was  closed. 
Finding  that  Dallas  did  not  reply,  she 
added  in  a  sharper  tone,  sententiously  : 
"  I  have  no  faith  in  making  companions 
of  that  class.  There's  nothing  so  con- 
tagious as  vice.  If  we  want  to  help  the 
poor,  the  firmer  we  stand  on  our  own 
ground  the  stronger  we  will  be  to  lift 
them  up.  That  is  what  I  tell  Lizzy. 
Now  there  is  a  case  just  in  point.  She 
is  our  housekeeper.  She  is  entangled 
with  a  convict  in  some  way.  Poor 
thing!  It  has  been  the  ruin  of  her  own 
life,  I  suspect." 

She  caught  sight  of  Galbraith's  keen 
eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  and  grew  more 
bitter  and  strenuous  from  his  fancied  re- 
pro  val  : 

"  She  has  ruined  her  life  for  him  ? 
She  loved  him,  perhaps.  I  would  think 
any  woman  would  understand  that." 

"I  do  not,"  sharply.  "I'm  no  hero- 
ine. I  mean,  God  helping  me,  to  make 
myself  a  pure,  good  woman  ;  and  I'll 
keep  out  of  the  slough.  I  think  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  was  right  in  her  treat- 
ment of  her  son.  I  never  would  let 
down  the  bars.  If  I  were  Lizzy,  and 
the  man  were  my  own  brother  who  was  so 
covered  with  moral  leprosy,  I  would  help 
him  as  far  as  I  could  with  such  a  gulf 
between  us,  but  I  would  never  call  him 
brother  again.  The  dearer  he  was  to 
me  the  farther  I  would  put  him  away  to 
save  myself" 

Dallas  walked  on  beside  her  in  abso- 
lute silence.  She  was  hot  and  angry — 
more  angry  that  he  would  not  reply  to 
her — but  she  could  think  of  nothing  more 
forcible  to  say.  Honora  was  just  of 
that  age  when  the  mind  is  of  course 
quite  clear  on  all  social  problems,  and 
the  creed  is  fixed  irrevocably.  But  the 
ideas  in  the  brain,  being  new  and  fever- 
ish, are  apt  to  rush  out  and  parade  them- 
selves tumultuously. 

Galbraith  never  had  argued  in  his  life, 
and  most  probably  never  would.  He 
listened  with  a  stunned,  sore  feeling  to 
what  seemed  to  him  puerile,  senseless 
cruelty.  It  was  like  the  whizz  of  a  lash 
which  might    some  day  draw   his  own 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


heart's  blood.  For  the  moment,  their 
educations  coming  in  sudden  collision, 
the  girl's  presence  was  as  repugnant  to 
him  as  the  touch  of  a  dainty,  malignant 
cat  would  be  to  a  rough,  stupid  dog. 

They  walked  along  the  road  for  a  few 
paces,  when,  just  as  they  reached  the 
ponies,  Honora  turned  on  him,  her  face 
flushing  crimson,  her  eyes  indignant : 
"  What  have  I  done  ?  You  did  not  un- 
derstand me  !"  she  exclaimed,  stretching 
out  both  hands.  "You  thought  I  in- 
cluded you  in  that  dreadful  tainted 
rabble  down  below.  I  never  even  re- 
membered you  had  been  poor.  You  are. 
a  Galbraith — you  are  one  of  us.  You 
went  into  the  coal-pits  from  choice  !" 

"  I  was  not  angry  with  you,"  said 
Dallas,  gravely.  "  I  did  not  myself  re- 
member that  your  words  would  apply  to 
me.  I  was  thinking  of  others  whom  I 
know,  and  of  how  long  they  must  stay 
in  the  depths  if  it  were  left  to  you  and 
your  class  to  take  them  out." 

Honora  laughed.  "  Don't  be  angry 
with  me,  Cousin  Dallas.  I  have  rea- 
soned that  subject  out  thoroughly,  and 
you  have  not.  If  there's  one  thing  I  do 
understand,  it  is  human  nature.  But 
you  have  lived  in  the  woods  and  moun- 
tains so  long  that  you  are  visionary 
about  men.  I  understand  how  that  is," 
as  though  she  gave  him  a  good-boy  pat 
on  the  head.  "That  is  such  a  grand 
life — yours,"  her  voice  changing  and  her 
dark  eyes  glowing  with  enthusiasm.  "A 
naturalist  —  made  so  by  nature!  I 
thought  so  the  day  I  met  you  by  the 
quarry.  All  other  men's  work  seemed 
less  clean  and  noble  than  yours.  You 
have  lived  many  years  in  the  woods, 
have  you  not  ?" 

Galbraith  swung  his  bag  to  the  other 
side,  that  he  might  come  closer  to  her. 
The  dogged,  honest  fellow  quite  under- 
stood now  what  manner  of  bigot  she 
was,  and  intended  to  show  her  that 
he  did  so.  Weighed  against  the  hard 
realities  of  his  own  experience,  or  with 
Lizzy's  ruined  hfe,  or  even  the  narrow 
bigotry  of  the  Manasquan  fishermen, 
she  and  her  shallow,  unfeeling  philoso- 
phy were  weak  and  paltry.  Words  like 
those  could  hurt  him  no  more,  he  told 


himself,  than  the  buzzing  of  a  poor  wasp 
which  he  could  crush  in  his  hand.  He 
meant  to  tell  her  for  his  sole  answer 
where  he  had  lived  and  how. 

If  he  had  but  done  that,  his  hfe 
and  hers  would  have  had  a  different 
ending. 

But  in  the  instant  that  he  stepped 
closer  to  her,  Honora  blushed  and  held 
out  her  hand.  She  thought  he  wanted 
to  shake  hands  in  token  of  forgiveness. 
"  You  know  I  could  not  have  meant 
you,"  she  said,  smiling. 

The  hand  was  warm.  The  soft  pulse 
beat  against  his  own.  Her  breath  for 
an  instant  touched  his  face :  it  had  a 
faint  milky  smell. 

That  was  all. 

The  next  moment  the  little  lady  stood 
apart,  friendly  and  nonchalant  as  before  ; 
but  the  great  lout  in  the  gray  flannel 
turned  from  her  and  patted  the  pony  like 
an  imbecile,  heaven  and  earth  growing 
uncertain  to  him,  as  though  he  judged 
them  through  the  fumes  of  opium. 

To  hold  her  hand  in  his,  to  feel  her 
breath  on  his  cheek,  to  sit  down  beside 
her  for  ever  in  her  life  of  ease  and  com- 
fort !  He  was  as  little  akin  to  the  foul 
rabble  as  she,  and  could  put  his  foot 
upon  their  necks  as  well ! 

Five  years  of  misery  had  not  moved 
Dallas  Galbraith's  integrity,  but  at  the 
breath  of  a  woman  it  shook  to  its  foun-  v 
dation. 

Miss  Dundas  sprang  lightly  into  the 
chaise.     "Come  !"  she  said. 

Galbraith  laid  his  heavy  hand  on  the 
low  edge:  "Wait!"  Whatever  tumult 
raged  within,  his  manner  was,*  as  usual, 
blunt  and  quiet.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  go 
and  claim  my  place  when  you  came  to 
me,  to-day." 

"No!"  eagerly:  "you  were  going  as 
a  laborer  with  Doctor  Pritchard.  You 
meant  to  cede  your  right  to  me.  So 
heroes  act,  I  think  !" 

"  I  would  have  come  back  to  claim  it 
some  day,"  said  downright  Dallas.  "  But 
I  will  go  with  Pritchard.  I  have  been 
like  a  lay  figure  all  my  life,  dressed  in 
one  costume  or  another  by  any  chance 
that  gained  power  over  me.  The  heir 
of  the  Galbraiths  would  be  as  mu'^h  of 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


119 


a  puppet  as  the  others.  This  is  my  first 
chance  to  make  a  man  of  myself." 

"You  shall  not  go  with  Doctor  Pritch- 
ard!"  with  vehemence,  clasping  her 
hands  on  her  knees,  and  bending  for- 
ward. "  I  will  not  hold  a  false  place  a 
day  longer !"  Then  her  voice  fell  into 
tliat  soothing,  coaxing  cadence  which  is 
only  given  to  those  women  who  are 
Nature's  predestined  wives  and  mothers  : 
'•  Think  what  you  are  leaving.  You 
would  be  welcomed  as  one  risen  from 
tlie  dead.  It  is  your  home.  Your  mo- 
tlier  is  there — " 

"Yes,  my  mother." 

"Madam  Galbraith  would  make  her- 
self your  slave,  and  you  would  be  my 
uncle's  friend;  and  the  whole  world  of 
books  and  art  would  be  laid  at  your  feet, 
if  their  will  could  bring  it  to  you.  There 
would  not  be  one  shadow  in  your  way. 
Even  Colonel  Laddoun  is  gone,  and  you 
cannot  deny  that  he  has  acted  as  a  friend 
and  not  an  enemy,"  with  a  smile.  "Your 
kingdom  is  ready.  You  have  only  to 
enter  on  possession." 

"  And  you  ?  When  I  had  taken  your 
place  ?" 

"My  uncle  will  be  my  friend  always,'' 
settling  herself  back  lightly  among  the 
cushions.  "And  I  would  try  to  atone 
to  you  for  whatever  wrong  I  have  done 
you,"  looking  down  into  his  eyes,  inno- 
cently enough. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 
"Why,  would  you  turn  back  from  my 
uncle  and — all  of  us  ?"  in  a  low  voice. 

Why  would  he?  Laddoun  was  gone, 
all  danger  of  detection  was  over.  Was 
it  a  squectmish  scruple  in  him  to  shrink 
from  the  perpetual  mask  he  must  wear 
if  he  took  his  place  now.''  Lizzy  had 
be'en  outraged  at  his  unnecessary  honesty 
to  Madam  Galbraith,  and  even  Honora 
herself  had  proposed  that  he  should  hide 
his  poverty. 

She  turned  toward  him  now,  holding 
the  reins  out:  "Will  you  take  them.^ 
Will  you  come  with  me  ?"  she  said. 

"Give  me  until  to-night." 

"  Until  to-night  ?     Yes.     Of  course," 

with    a    chagrined,    disappointed    look, 

a    man    could    not    be    expected    to 

change  the  whole  plan  of  his  life  with  a 


moment's  notice,  for  anybody.  Here  is 
my  key  of  the  green-house,"  taking  it 
from  her  pocket:  "it  opens  into  the  ap- 
ple orchard.  I  will  be  in  it  at  dusk  and 
take  you  to  my  uncle." 

"  I  will  meet  you.  If  I  go  with  Doc- 
tor Pritchard,  I  must  see  my  mother 
again,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  to 
satisfy  himself 

"Yes,  one  would  suppose  you  would 
wish  to  do  that,"  dryly.  "  Unless  the  study 
of  coal  renders  you  entirely  superior  to 
all  human  sympathies,"  giving  the  reins 
a  petulant  little  jerk.  "Come,  Babe,  it 
is  time  you  and  I  were  at  home.  Good- 
bye, Mr.  Galbraith." 

"Good-bye,"  returning  her  distant 
bow  with  a  puzzled,  anxious  face.  "  How 
could  I  have  offended  her  V  he  said,  as 
she  drove  quickly  down  the  hill.  "I 
wish  I  had  Laddoun's  insight  into  wo- 
men! They  are  the  most  unaccount- 
able— "  shaking  his  head  once  or  twice 
as  he  walked  slowly  after  her,  his  hands 
behind  him. 

He  meant  to  weigh  his  whole  hfe  now 
coolly,  and  decide.  Instead,  he  watched 
the  glittering  rings  of  light  on  the  tan- 
colored  wheels  of  her  little  chariot. 
They  were  whirling  her  away  into  a  joy- 
ous, affluent  life  which  was  his  by  right, 
but  that  the  something,  which  had 
always  been  against  him,  thrust  out  its 
shadowy  arm  to  bar  him  back.  For  it 
was  clear  to  him  that  if  he  made  him- 
self known  now  to  his  family,  the  history 
of  the  years  at  Albany  could  never  be 
told.  He  did  not  analyze  his  reasons 
for  this  certainty.  He  could  have  told 
his  story  to  old  James  Galbraith  at  any 
moment,  knowing  that  he  would  hear  it 
with  a  man's  quiet  moderation  and  jus- 
tice. As  for  the  old  honess,  his  grand- 
mother, Dallas  smiled  with  the  usual 
contempt  of  a  young  man  for  strong- 
minded  women.  But — there  was  not 
courage  in  him  to  declare  himself  a  con- 
vict in  that  house !  and  then  he  stopped 
to  drag  out  a  great  boulder  from  the 
clay  and  hurl  it  down  the  road,  as  a  boy 
would  do  to  work  off  some  suppressed, 
gnawing  excitement. 

When  he  came  back,  a  gentleman, 
thorough  bred,   "the  prison    smell,"  as 


I20 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


Laddoun  had  said,  blown  off  him  for 
ever,  it  might  be  different — he  could  face 
the  world. 

But  what  if  he  let  her  take  him  to- 
night, with  her  soft,  rosy  hand,  and  lead 
him  in  to  her  uncle  ?  What  if  he  kept 
his  own  counsel,  and  let  the  current 
carry  him  as  it  would  ?  Into  home, 
wealth  and  that  passionate  dream  which 
he  did  not  name.  He  had  gone  into  the 
coal-pits  for  his  mother's  sake:  had 
gone  into  the  prison  for  Laddoun's 
crime.  Were  these  things  to  hold  him 
down  until  the  day  of  his  death  ? 

He  sat  down  on  a  patch  of  bronzed 
stubble,  scratched  a  bit  of  scaly  rock 
beside  him  with  his  thumb-nail  to  see 
if  it  had  iron  in  it,  and  then  clasped  his 
hands  about  his  knees  and  sat  motion- 
less as  the  tree-stumps  about  him.  On 
his  right  was  the  cleft  in  the  hills  through 
which  her  glittering  wheels  had  disap- 
peared, and,  as  it  happened,  the  sky 
beyond  was  suffused  just  then  with 
a  warm  crystal  yellow,  beneath  which 
the  far-off  mountains  lay  misty  and 
peaceful. 

There  was  the  home  to  which  she 
called  him. 

To  the  left  was  the  road  to  the  west, 
and  his  work.  Which  should  he  choose 
to-morrow  ?  Working,  he  could  act  out 
himself,  honest,  to  the  last  syllable  :  here 
he  must  force  himself  into  a  mould  set 
by  others.  As  for  concealing  that  he 
had  been  a  convict,  the  question  in  ethics 
might  have  been  called  overstrained ; 
but  Galbraith  could  not  chop  ethics 
about  the  matter :  it  did  not  come  before 
him  at  all  as  a  question  of  right  and 
wrong.  A  church  member  would  have 
said,  perhaps,  that  God  was  on  one  side 
and  Mammon  on  the  other  ;  but  Dallas 
seldom  thought  of  God  in  connection 
with  his  own  small  affairs,  unless,  with 
an  insane  blasphemy,  to  name  Him  as 
the  something  strongest  "which  was  al- 
ways against  him."  Of  Jesus,  like  most 
men  of  the  poorer  class,  he  had  a  dread- 
ful vague  reverence ;  but  what  had  He  to 
do  with  his  going  with  Pritchard  .''  Old 
Luther,  fighting  the  visible  devil  with 
brain  and  muscles  goaded  to  their  limit, 
has  left  the  si™  of  the  memorable  con- 


flict to  this  day ;  but  Dallas  did  not  even 
know  that  he  was  tempted. 

He  sat  there  during  the  long  sunny 
afternoon.  When  it  was  over,  there  was 
a  dull  dizziness  in  his  head,  new  to  the 
clean -blooded  fellow  who  never  had 
tasted  coffee  or  smoked  tobacco.  He 
had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  that  golden 
haze  which  wrapped  her  home.  He  felt 
the  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his  hand  and 
the  sweet  breath  on  his  cheek. 

Three  thousand  years  ago  another  Dal- 
las "  saw  that  rest  was  good  and  the  land 
that  it  was  pleasant,  and  he  bowed  his 
shoulder  to  bear,  and  became  a  servant 
unto  tribute."     The  story  is  an  old  one. 

But  Dallas  gave  to  his  temptation  and 
defence  no  high-sounding  names.  It 
was — to  be  himself  or  some  one  else. 
There  was  an  inherent  loathing  in  him 
for  any  sort  of  deception  or  accommoda- 
tion. It  went  against  his  grain.  You 
might  as  well  hope  for  a  dog  to  wriggle 
like  an  eel  through  the  slime,  and  relish 
his  employment.  But  he  battled  Avith 
his  nature,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the 
motionless,  golden  haze.  "  Rest  was 
good,  and  the  land,  it  was  pleasant."  A 
passionate,  enervating  languor,  which  his 
whole  Hfe  never  had  known  before,  stole 
over  from  it  to  him,  and  wooed  him  to 
come. 

The  rough  grit  in  the  man  (and, 
perhaps,  the  unsmoked  and  unliquored 
blood)  proved  too  much  for  its  subtle 
enchantment.  Cover  the  fact  as  he 
would,  going  back  meant  to  shoulder  a 
lie  and  live  in  daily  terror  of  its  dis- 
covery. It  meant  to  take  up  a  life  good 
for  others,  but  which  was  not  his.  It 
meant,  as  he  put  it  in  his  homely  phrase, 
"to  go  to  bed  early  in  the  morning  and 
to  sleep  all  day." 

He  got  up  at  last,  stifling  a  sigh, 
stretching  his  arms  and  legs  to  rest 
them.  "She  is  a  good,  sweet  woman, 
but  she  is  nothing  to  me,"  he  muttered ; 
and  then  slung  his  bag  again  briskly 
over  his  shoulder  and  set  off  across  the 
hill.     The  fight  was  over. 

Long  after,  when  he  told  his  wife  the 
story,  she  told  him  that  he  should  have 
asked  the  Divine  guidance.  For  Dallas 
married  afterward  a  good,  pious  girl,  who 


DALLAS    GALBRAITIL 


learned  her  religion,  as  her  alphabet,  out 
of  books. 

"  I  didn't  know  much  about  that.  But 
it  went  against  the  grain.  A  man  at 
that  age  don't  take  naturally  to  artificial 
living.  The  tiller-rope  pulls  at  a  young 
fellow  pretty  strong,  and  generally  pulls 
him  right,  no  matter  how  the  current 
sets." 

"You  never  will  understand,  Dallas, 
the  difference  between  our  carnal  nature 
and  that  spiritual  one  which  comes  after 
conversion,"  she  said,  a  little  testily.  "  No 
good  action  is  acceptable  in  any  young 
man  who  is  an  unbeliever.  Our  own 
righteousness  is  but  as  filthy  rags." 

"Very  likely,  my  dear,"  said  Dallas, 
submissively. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  the  same 
hand  which  raised  the  widow's  son  might 
now  hold  the  tiller-rope  of  a  wild  young 
fellow's  life ;  or,  in  Dallas'  confused  talk 
of  what  was  natural,  or  "the  grain,"  in 
such  an  one,  to  remember  that  He  has 
"  many  kinds  of  voices  in  the  world,  and 
tliat  none  of  them  is  without  significa- 
tion." 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Doctor  Pritchard  met  Dallas  that 
afternoon  on  the  hills  going  back  to  the 
Indian  Queen.  The  Professor  was  on 
foot  also,  and  seated  himself  to  wait  for 
him,  looking  over  and  smelling  some  bits 
of  wool. 

"  Good-day,  Galbraith,"  nodding.  "  I 
saw  you  coming.  I  knew  the  stride  of 
your  long  legs  far  off.  Very  fair  speci- 
mens of  Sa.xony  these,  eh  ?  Pool's  : 
down  in  the  bottom." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  sheep. 
Doctor." 

"  The  more  shame  for  you  then,  sir — 
yes,"  sorting  them  in  his  pocket-book 
and  strapping  it.  "  What  are  eyes,  or 
ears,  or  any  sense  given  to  you  for  but 
feelers — suckers,  to  draw  in  knowledge 
of  all  sorts  perpetually .?  At  your  age 
I  could  class  a  sheep  by  a  bit  of  its 
wool,  just  as  I  can  a  man  now  by  a  glint 
of  his  eye  ;  though  that  last  needs  some- 


thing more  than  observation — a  keen  in- 
stinct," complacently,  putting  his  wallet 
in  his  breast-pocket  and  rising. 

He  walked  on,  nimbly,  beside  Dallas, 
tapping  the  ground  or  trees  with  his 
pointed  stick  now  and  then,  and  whist- 
ling to  himself.  There  was  a  light- 
hearted,  rugged  strength  in  the  young 
fellow's  face  which  invigorated  him. 
They  would  have  a  pleasant  compan- 
ionship by  and  by.  The  old  gentleman 
had  boasted  so  much,  in  the  neiglibor- 
hood,  of  the  lucky  "find"  he  had  made 
in  Galbraith,  and  his  own  penetration 
about  it,  that  he  began  to  have  a  sort  of 
fatherly  affection  for  the  lad. 

"  Is  your  kit  all  ready,  sir  ?  We  start 
early  in  the  morning,  remember.  I'll  over- 
look your  outfit  when  we  reach  New  York, 
and  advise  you  what  to  take.  You're  a 
novice  in  long  marches,  and,  my  word  for 
it,  your  knapsack  will  be  filled  with 
trumpery.  I'll — "  he  hesitated.  "I'll 
advance  your  salary  for  three  months  in 
New  York,  so  that  you  can  be  all  ship- 
shape before  starting." 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you.  Doctor  Pritch- 
ard," heartily.  "  I  will  have  use  for  the 
money  in  New  York,  though  not  for 
clothes.  I  thought  that  some  little  busi- 
ness I  had  to  begin  there  must  be  ne- 
glected until  our  return.  Now  I  can  put 
it  in  shape." 

"I'm  glad  I  can  serve  you,"  said  the 
Professor,  with  a  pleased  glance  up  at 
the  young  man's  bright  face.  "  New 
York,  umph  ?  I  thought  you  belonged 
to  this  part  of  the  country,  Galbraith  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  am  a  stranger  here.  I  have 
spent  but  a  few  weeks  in  New  York, 
either,  and  that  was  long  ago.  Five 
years  ago." 

His  tone  betrayed  a  sudden  and  great 
embarrassment,  which  the  little  man  no- 
ticed ;  and  after  a  moment's  curious 
pause  he  changed  the  subject  with  ready 
courtesy. 

"  Do  you  observe  the  cinnamon-col- 
ored vein  in  that  rock  ?  Now,  just  be- 
neath that — " 

But   Dallas  had   slackened   his   pace 
and  now  stopped,  putting  his  hand  on 
his  companion's  sleeve.     "One  moment.  * 
I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  New  York.     I 


DALLAS    GALEBAITH. 


intended  to  find  you  this  evening,  Doc- 
tor Pritchard,  and  ask  you  if  you  would 
not  prefer  to  know  something  of  my  his- 
tory before  you  took  me  into  sucii  close 
companionship.  I  will  not  go  with  you 
under  false  colors." 

"  Your  history  ?"  with  surprise.  "  It 
is  hardly  necessary,  boy,"  with  a  smile. 
"A  young  mechanic  is  not  likely  to  have 
met  with  much  adventure  ;  and  as  for 
your  honesty  and  the  like,  I  took  your 
face  for  my  bond  at  first.  I  know  men 
pretty  thoroughly,  I  fancy." 

Galbraith  did  not  reply,  and  they 
walked  on  in  a  silence  which  grew  more 
uneasy  on  the  older  man's  part :  he  cast 
shrewd,  furtive  looks  at  Dallas'  anxious 
face.  "  I  trust  to  your  honesty,"  he  re- 
peated, with  meaning.  "  If  there  is  any 
reason  why  you  are  unfit  for  my  com- 
panionship, I  believe  you  will  not  con- 
ceal it.  I  could  not  trust  any  man  far- 
ther than  that."  He  had  a  suspicion 
that  the  lad  might  have  contracted  debts 
and  wanted  more  money  in  advance  to 
pay  them.  He  was  annoyed  and  irri- 
tated, and  meant  to  find  out  the  worst 
at  once. 

"  I  am  an  ignorant  man,  as  you  know, 
but  I  think  I  am  not  unfit  to  be  your 
companion,"  said  Galbraith,  slowly,  and 
then  was  silent  again  until  they  had 
walked  several  rods.  He  stopped  then, 
deliberately.  "  I  prefer  to  tell  you  my 
story.  Doctor  Pritchard,  but  there  is  no 
necessity  for  me  to  do  it.  There  is  not 
a  chance  that  you  would  find  it  out  in 
any  other  way.  There  is  but  one  man 
who  could  have  betrayed  me,  and  he  is 
gone.  I  would  like  you  to  understand 
that,  out  of  justice  to  me." 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  telling  it  for, 
then  ?" 

Dallas  half  laughed.  "  I  hardly  know. 
I  did  not  mean  to  do  it  until  this  after- 
noon ;  but  I  would  feel  more  comfort- 
able if  you  knew  it." 

"  Knew  what  ?"  irritably.  He  began 
to  suspect  his  penetration  had  been  de- 
ceived. 

"  Knew  that  during  the  three  weeks  I 
was  in  New  York  long  ago  I  was  put 
on  my  trial  for  a  penal  offence,  and 
found  guilty.     Stop — hear  me  out,"  rais- 


ing his  hand.  "  I  served  out  my  time 
in  the  Albany  State  prison.  That  is  all 
I  have  to  accuse  myself  with.  I  was 
innocent.  You  jmist  believe  me.  I  was 
innocent !"  for  now  that  he  had  made 
the  inner  self  comfortable  by  his  confes- 
sion, he  recognized  that  his  chance  for 
making  a  man  of  himself  outwardly  was 
slipping  from  him  for  ever. 

The  Doctor  was  leaning  back  against 
the  hill-side,  his  small  features  full  of 
rage  and  scorn — not  at  Galbraith's  vil- 
lainy, but  that  he  had  drawn  him  into  a 
mistake.  "  Served  out  your  time  in  the 
Albany  prison  !  Of  course  you  were  in- 
nocent !  Was  there  ever  a  scoundrel 
who  could  not  pipe  that  tune  ?  Don't 
explain  to  me  !  I'll  sift  this  matter  to 
the  bottom.  I'll  teach  you  to  foist  your- 
self on  honest  men.  And  drawing  his 
salary  in  advance !  By  the  Lord ! 
Drawing  his  salary  in  advance  !" 

Galbraith  made  no  answer,  while  the 
little  man  fumed  and  scolded,  turning 
back  on  his  first  assertions  with  renewed 
zest.  "Why,  I've  endorsed  you,  sir! 
I've  talked  of  you  far  and  near.  I  made 
myself  accountable,  as  one  might  say, 
for  you,  and  I  have  a  jail-bird  on  my 
hands  !  But  I'll  sift  the  matter  !  You 
need  not  suppose  you  can  dodge  John 
Pritchard.  Who  was  the  man  who  could 
have  betrayed  you,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Colonel  Laddoun.  You  seem  to 
have  forgotten  that  I  have  betrayed  my- 
self, and  that  voluntarily." 

"  Colonel  Laddoun  is  gone.  You  took 
good  care  there  should  be  no  witness 
against  you.  He  said,  I  remember,  that 
he  knew  you  thoroughly." 

"  Yes.  No  man  could  tell  the  story 
with  more  meaning  than  Laddoun,"  with 
a  bitter  smile,  which  exasperated  Pritch- 
ard the  more. 

"Your  sneer  is  singularly  out  of  place, 
sir,  it  appears  to  me,"  with  what  he  felt 
to  be  telling  sarcasm,  "inasmuch  as  he 
kept  your  secret.  I  would  have  been 
glad,"  with  an  ironical  laugh,  "if  his  con- 
sideration had  extended  to  me  also,  be- 
fore he  permitted  me  to  make  you  my 
companion  for  a  year." 

"  It  is  not  yet  too  late,"  said  Dallas, 
speaking  with  difficulty.     "  You  can  dif- 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


123 


charge  me  now.  I — I  told  you  in  time." 
He  stopped  abruptly. 

The  Professor  eyed  him  keenly. 
Against  his  will,  he  had  felt,  through  his 
passion,  that  the  jail-bird,  as  he  called 
him.  stood  higher  than  he — was  a  graver, 
more  moderate,  juster  man.  He  saw, 
now,  Galbraith's  effort  at  control,  and 
knew,  in  spite  of  it,  that  the  lad  suffered. 
This  chance  of  work  was  the  last  plank 
to  which  the  poor  wretch  clung,  perhaps. 

But  what  man  of  sense,  he  thought, 
justly  enough,  would  risk  a  year's  com- 
panionship with  a  felon  ?  and  what  sort 
of  a  story  was  this  to  get  abroad  after 
he  had  picked  out  the  fellow — talked, 
boasted  of  him  ? 

'••  No,  it  is  not  too  late,"  he  growled, 
with  a  decisive  rap  of  his  stick  on  the 
ground.  "You  are  discharged.  Of 
course  vou  are  discharged.  And  I  am 
not  one  to  change  my  mind  about  it.  I 
never  changed  my  mind  in  my  life.  I'm 
not  a  woman,  thank  God  !  I'll  take  care 
that  your  character  is  known  to  honest 
men.  My  word  for  it,  Evans  never 
knew  it." 

Dallas  stepped  in  front  of  him  as  he 
was  turning  off.  Disappointment  had 
hardened  his  face  and  lowered  his  voice  ; 
but,  after  all,  the  heartiness  and  strength 
in  them,  which  had  first  impressed 
Pritchard  and  warmed  his  heart  to  the 
lad,  were  there,  and  he  could  not  be 
blind  to  them. 

"  You  will  not  tell  my  story  here,  sir," 
he  said,  sternly.  "  If  I  chose  to  confide 
it  to  you,  because  I  would  take  no  unfair 
advantage  of  you,  you  have  no  right  to 
blast  my  name  with  it." 

<'  Tut !  tut !  You  lay  down  the  law 
of  morality  for  me,  do  you  ?" 

"  Nor  had  you  any  right  to  believe 
one  half  of  my  assertion  and  set  aside 
the  other,"  Dallas  proceeded.  "  I  would 
not  have  been  so  unjust,  if  I  stood  where 
you  do." 

"  Truly  !  you  would  not  ?  The  mat- 
ter's closed,  sir,"  pulling  his  hat  on  with 
an  air  of  determination.  "  Innocent  or 
guilty,  I  hardly  choose  to  make  a  con- 
vict my  daily  associate.  Not  another 
jvord.  The  matter's  closed."  He  started 
off  down   the  road,  every  step   ringing 


out  uncompromisingly,  while  Dallas 
stood  looking  after  him,  leaning  against 
the  rock. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  the  Doctor 
stopped,  hesitated  a  moment  and  back 
he  came,  hotter,  more  out  of  breath  and 
angrier  than  before. 

"'What  is  the  whole  of  this  cursed 
story  ?  What  do  you  hold  it  back  for  ? 
Have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself, 
eh  ?" 

"  I  was  a  boy,  and  was  made  a  cat's- 
paw  of  by  another  man.  I  presented  a 
check  which  he  had  forged.  It  was 
made  payable  to  me." 

"'Where  is  your  proof .^" 

"  I  have  none,"  standing  erect  and 
raising  his  voice.  "  No  matter  what 
manner  of  man  I  make  of  myself,  I 
never  can  go  back  to  the  town  where  I 
lived  and  be  called  anything  but  a  thief. 
I  would  rather  those  people  believed  in 
me  as  they  once  did,  than —  But  what 
is  the  use  of  talking  about  it  to  you .'"' 

"  Don't  be  so  hasty,  young  man. 
There  may  be  a  great  deal  of  use  in  it. 
So  they  believed  in  you,  did  they?  That 
would  be  a  terrible  story  if  it  was  true. 
Not  that  I  have  the  least  faith  in  it,  though. 
Who  was  the  man,  by  the  way  ?" 

Dallas  hesitated  :  "  I  will  not  tell  you 
his  name.  Not  that  I  want  to  keep  his 
secret.  I'd  be  glad  if  the  whole  world 
knew  him  for  what  he  is.  But  what  is 
the  use  ?  You  would  but  doubt  me  the 
more." 

"  You  are  the  best  judge  of  the  mat- 
ter, certainly.  Well,  good-day,  Mr.  Gal- 
braith.  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind. 
You  are  discharged.  It's  the  first  time 
my  instinct  ever  deceived  me  in  a  man." 

"  It  did  not  deceive  you  now,  Doctor 
Pritchard  ;"  and  Dallas  gave  a  low,  nerv- 
ous laugh,  so  like  a  woman's  that  it 
startled  the  old  man.  He  only  glowered 
more  gloomily,  however,  and  set  off 
again  rapidly  down  the  hill ;  and  this 
time  he  did  not  come  back. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

When    Dallas    reached    the    Indian 
Queen,  half  an  hour  later,  Matt  met  him, 


124 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


breathless,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  "  I've 
been  watching  for  you  all  day  !"  secur- 
ing a  hand.  "  You're  a-going  to-morrow, 
sure  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going." 

"They're  packing  up  for  you  in  there." 
The  "  they"  meant  Mrs.  Beck  and  Lizzy 
Byrne,  who  came  now  to  the  window 
and  nodded  smiling,  each  cheek  as  red 
as  a  poppy  leaf  She  had  a  smoothing- 
iron  within  an  inch  of  her  chin,  testing 
its  heat.  Peggy  had  just  finished  the 
white  shirts  she  had  been  making  for 
Dallas,  and  Lizzy  had  been  helping  her 
to  "do  them  up."  The  two  women  had 
been  in  a  fever  of  anxious  preparation 
all  day  ;  for  Miss  Byrne  had  been  over 
at  the  Indian  Queen  several  times  since 
Dallas'  advent,  to  see  her  old  friend,  Mrs. 
Beck.  She  told  her  that  she  had  many 
friends  in  common  with  Mr.  Galbraith, 
and  gradually  seemed  to  share  in  Peggy's 
fervent  interest  in  the  young  man. 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Beck  had  confided  to 
her  husband  in  the  barn-yard,  while  she 
was  milking  that  very  morning,  that  "  if 
Miss  Elizabeth  was  ten  years  younger, 
she  thought  something  might  come  of  it. 
She  was  very  tidy-looking  still,  and  it 
was  high  time  she  was  settling." 

The  news  of  her  boarder's  appoint- 
ment to  go  with  Doctor  Pritchard  had 
put  the  good  woman  in  an  ecstasy  of 
delight  and  triumph.  Evans,  indeed ! 
She  knew,  from  the  first,  he  was  none 
of  Evans'  sort ;  and  now  the  United 
States  was  sending  him  out  on  their  own 
especial  business.  She  had  no  doubt 
that  the  President  had  had  his  eye  on 
him  ever  since  he  came  to  the  Indian 
Queen.  She  told  Beck  that  even  Miss 
Byrne,  who  was  so  common-sensed 
usually,  was  more  excited  about  it  than 
she.  It  was  Miss  Byrne  who  explained 
to  her  how  high  the  position  really  was, 
and  how  it  would  bring  his  name  into 
the  papers,  and  how  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  country  would  be  upon  him.  "It 
would  be  such  a  splendid  triumph  over 
his  enemies,"  she  said — "such  a  tri- 
umph !"  and  was  so  fluttered  whenever  she 
talked  of  it  that  she  was  ready  to  cry. 

When  Dallas  came  up  with  Matt  and 
sat  down  on  the  kitchen  door-step  open- 


ing on  the  porch,  Peggy  was  putting  the 
last  stitches  of  darning  in  his  woolen 
socks,  and  Lizzy  was  stooping  again  over 
the  shirt-front,  white  and  glossy  as  satin 
paper. 

"  I  took  Beck's  carpet-bag,  Mr.  Gal- 
braith," said  Pegg}',  clipping  her  words 
because  of  the  haste  of  the  occasion. 
"  Yours  is  too  small  to  hold  a  cat  curled 
up.  Them  jars  on  the  table  have  to  go 
in  yet.  They're  peach  leather — dry,  you 
see.  Y'ou've  got  to  stew  it.  It'll  be 
good  for  a  snack  out  on  the  Plains, 
spread  on  your  bread.  I've  no  doubt 
the  Doctor'll  like  a  bite  of  it  too.  He's 
a  notion  of  good  living ;  for,  as  lean  as 
he  is,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  drink 
my  apple-molasses.  Miss  Byrne,  when 
he  come  to  call  on  Mr.  Galbraith." 

"We've  nearly  done,"  said  Lizzy.  "I 
think  these  shirts  will  last  until  you 
come  back.  If  you  come,  as  you  pro- 
mised, at  the  end  of  a  year,"  looking  up 
at  him. 

"I'll  come  at  the  end  of  the  year," 
said  Dallas. 

"  I  don't  know,"  broke  in  Matt,  medi- 
tatively, "whether  I'd  like  a  shaggy  pony 
best  or  not.  There's  gobs  of  ponies 
about  hyur.  I  was  thinking  of  a  real 
crocodile  in  a  box.  D'ye  hear,  Mr.  Gal- 
braith ?" 

"Hear  to  the  child!  You'd  better 
ask  for  a  mocking-bird,  if  Mr.  Galbraith 
means  to  bring  you  anything.  Croco- 
dile, indeed?  You  asked  me  what  I'd 
rather  have  from  them  queer  countries, 
sir.  Well,  I  was  thinking,  since  Miss  EHz- 
abeth  told  me  of  fuchsias  there  growin' 
twelve  feet  high  and  cactuses  in  propor- 
tion, that  if  you  could  bring  an  original 
root — you  see? — I'd  take  the  premium  at 
the  county  fair,  then,  I  reckon." 

"I'll  bring  more  roots  than  you'll 
plant,"  said  Dallas;  "and  the  bird  for 
Matt."  For  the  world  was  broad,  he 
thought,  and  roots,  and  birds,  and  work 
were  to  be  found  outside  of  New  Mexico. 
He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  these  wo- 
men that,  instead  of  the  honorable  work 
over  which  they  were  glorying,  he  was 
going  out  to-morrow  without  a  penny  or 
a  friend  in  the  world.  He  wondered 
that  he  was  not  dejected  himself  about 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


it — that  while  he  was  trying  to  compre- 
hend the  great  chance  lost  to  him.  he 
was  wrestling  with  Matt  with  one  hand, 
and  looking  into  the  busy,  warm,  little 
kitchen,  laughing  at  Peggy's  jokes.  It 
seemed  to  Lizzy  that  for  years  he  had 
not  been  so  light-hearted :  all  his  old,  dry, 
quiet  humor,  which  used  to  keep  Mana- 
squan  alive,  had  come  back  to  him. 

"Are  you  so  glad  to  go?"  she  said, 
half  reproachfully,  when  Mrs.  Beck 
had  gone  out:  "One  would  think  you 
h.ad  your  fate  in  your  own  hands  at 
last,  and  could  make  yourself  what  you 
pleased." 

"  I  have  less  reason  to  be  glad  than 
you  suppose.  But  the  world  is  young, 
and  so  am  I." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,  Dallas." 

"There  is  no  use  in  moping  and 
whining  over  a  rough  tumble  at  the  out- 
set." He  had  dropped  his  load  some- 
how, she  saw,  and  was  exhilarated  as  a 
boy  with  this  odd  setting  forth  so  late  in 
life  to  seek,  not  fortune,  but  education. 

"  I  will  stay  all  night,  Dallas,"  she 
said.  "  I  would  like  to  be  the  last  to 
bid  you  God-speed,  in  the  morning." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Lizzy,"  his  eyes 
sparkling.  "  I  have  some  faith  in  omens, 
after  all." 

"Yes,  Miss  Byrne  will  stay,"  bustled 
in  Mrs.  Beck,  catching  the  last  words. 
"  Beck's  arranged  to  take  a  half  day  to- 
morrow, and  we'll  all  have  breakfast  to- 
gether, and  see  you  off  regularly.  Maybe 
now,  you'd  rather  have  had  the  chickens 
and  waffles  for  supper  to-night  ?  They're 
just  as  easy  cooked  as  not.  It  would 
seem  more  like  a  feast ;  but  I  doubted 
if  Matt'd  hold  out  so  late,  and  you're 
never  contented  without  the  boy." 

"No.  I'll  not  be  separated  from  my 
chum  when  the  time  for  the  last  chicken 
comes,  you  may  be  sure.  Besides,  I 
cannot  stay  at  home  this  evening,"  rising 
hastily.  "  I  have  a — a  person  to  meet, 
on  business,  at  nightfall.  I  will  not  be 
late.      I  have  but  a  few  words  to  say." 

"  I'll  tell  "Wash  to  saddle  the  old 
mare,"  said  Mrs.  Beck,  as  he  ran  up  the 
stairs  to  clean  away  the  dust. 

"  No,  no.  I  can  outwalk  Jinny  any 
iay,"   he    called   back,  and   a    moment 


afterward  they  heard  him  tramping  hur- 
riedly to  and  fro  overhead. 

"  I  wonder  who  the  'person'  is?"  said 
Peggy,  drawing  down  her  brows  over 
lier  darning.  "He's  great  at  making 
friends  for  as  silent  a  man — Mr.  Gal- 
braith.  There's  hardly  an  evenin'  that 
a  batch  of  the  men  from  the  quarry  ain't 
up,  talkin'  over  their  affairs  to  him. 
People's  drawed  to  him  nateral-like.  As 
for  Beck,  he's  told  him  more  of  his  early 
life  than  ever  he  did  me,  for  as  long  as 
I've  been  his  wife.  Gracious!"  as  Dal- 
las appeared  again,  freshly  dressed : 
"  goin'  out  in  gray  flannel  again !  These 
white  shirts  is  aired  as  dry  as  a  bone. 
I'd  go  out  as  become  me — once.  I'd 
let  'em  see  you  was  employed  by  the 
government.  Them's  your  quarry  clothes, 
Mr.  Galbraith.  Jest  slip  on  one  of  these 
new  ones,  now." 

Dallas  hesitated :  "The  gray  are  quite 
clean,  and  some  people — artists — would 
like  this  dress  best."  But  he  waited  a 
moment,  uneasily  pushing  back  his  short 
hair  before  he  put  on  his  cap.  Up  stairs 
he  had  stood,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
perhaps,  critically  looking  at  himself  in 
the  square  litde  mirror.  There  was  no 
help  for  it !  He  was  hopelessly  big,  and 
bony,  and  homely. 

"Well,  what  does  it  matter?"  he  said, 
cheerfully.  "Who  will  look  at  the  flan- 
nel, after  all — or  at  me  ?"  giving  Matt  a 
final  toss  as  he  went  out,  calling  back 
good-night,  and  that  they  were  not  to 
wait  for  him.  Lizzy  followed  him  to  the 
door  to  look  after  him,  her  eyes  full  of 
motherly  pride :  no  man  ever  had  so 
much  purity  and  vigor  in  his  face  as  her 
boy,  she  thought. 

"  Jest  see  how  he  goes  !"  said  Pegg)', 
coming  to  her  elbow.  "These  young 
ones  think  they  can  carry  the  world  on 
their  shoulders  !  Dear  !  dear  !  Much 
they  know  of  life  !  If  you'll  just  take 
his  things  in  the  other  room.  Miss  Lizzy, 
I'll  have  supper  ready  in  no  time." 

Lizzy  obeyed,  a  little  annoyed.  What 
right  had  Peggy  to  complain  and  talk 
about  wants  in  life  ?  watching  the  hearty 
litde  woman  going  about,  swiftly  bringing 
order  out  of  confusion.  Hadn't  she  a 
husband  and  child  that  she  loved,  and  a 


126 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


little  house  of  her  own  ?  Presently  the 
table  was  set,  the  egg  stirred  into  the 
coffee,  the  sausages  frying  on  the  side 
or  the  fire.  Peggy  disappeared,  and 
coming  back  in  a  new  blue  cahco  gown, 
sat  down  to  rock  Matt  to  sleep  in  her 
arms,  big  boy  as  he  was.  The  evening 
light  slanted  in  warmly :  Matt  was  a 
clean,  pretty  little  chap :  his  mother's 
face  was  young  and  bright :  the  picture 
had  a  certain  homely  beauty  of  its  own. 
It  touched  poor  Lizzy  with  a  sense  of 
hunger  and  desolation.  She  had  missed 
her  birthright  of  love,  and  home,  and 
child.  One  could  bear,  she  thought,  to 
to  be  always  the  broken  thread  in  the 
web,  the  solitary  looker-in  at  the  home- 
picture,  if  one  had  but  a  dream  of  their 
own  to  hide  and  be  comforted  withal. 
But  her  dream,  the  nauseating  story  of 
■  moonlight  and  ebbing  tide,  by  this  time, 
made  her  only  sick  to  remember. 

A  sudden  fancy  seized  her.  What  if 
she  went  back  to  Manasquan  and  waited 
there  while  Galbraith  was  gone  ?  There, 
at  least,  was  home.  She  could  have 
her  own  seat  by  her  own  fire,  and  cozy 
little  supjDers,  too,  which  old  friends,  who 
knew  her  when  she  was  a  baby,  would 
come  and  eat  with  her.  Jim  Van  Zeldt 
sometimes.  Poor  Jim  !  She  gave  a  mel- 
ancholy smile  :  Well,  well !  Every  heart 
knew  its  own  weight ;  and  it  would  not 
make  her  less  tender  with  him  to  feel 
tliat  she  had  made  his  so  heavy.  If  he 
came  to  sit  with  her,  sometimes,  they 
would  keep  silence  for  ever  on  this  old 
wound,  and  by  and  by  it  would  be  healed, 
and  they  would  grow  to  be  old,  gray 
friends.  It  seemed  to  her  very  like  a 
poem  or  a  novel,  the  picture  of  them 
both  sitting  quietly  on  either  side  of  the 
hearth,  year  after  year,  with  this  secret 
between  them.  This  space  that  never 
might  be  passed,  and  the  sea  sounding 
in  the  distance  like  a  wail  over  that 
which  might  have  been  and  never  was. 

The  melancholy  "  situation  "  pleased 
Lizzy,  who  was,  as  we  know,  sensible 
and  practical  beyond  all  women :  it  put 
her  unconsciously  in  a  thoroughly  good 
humor.  With  this  vision  of  Van  Zeldt, 
made  miserable  for  life  by  her,  and  sitting 
night  after  night  until  he  grew  gray  con- 


templating his  misery,  she  did  not  feel 
herself  utterly  cut  adrift,  or  that  she  had 
lost  her  birthright  among  women.  When 
Beck  came  in  to  supper,  he  found  Matt 
snugly  tucked  away  in  bed,  and  Miss 
Byrne  in  the  best  spirits,  drawing  the 
flaky  biscuits  from  the  oven,  while 
Peggy  made  the  coffee. 

"  This  is  hearty !"  he  said,  giving 
Peggy  a  sounding  kiss,  and  then  they 
sat  down  as  snug  and  cozy  as  could  be. 
Lizzy  quoted  to  herself  something  about 
"  harts  ungalled,"  looking  at  Peggy, 
and  how  some  may  laugh,  and  some 
must  weep,  and  that  so  runs  the  world 
away.  But  she  ate  very  heartily  of  the 
biscuit  and  sausage,  being  hungry  ;  and 
was,  Mr.  Beck  said  that  night,  for  a 
wonder,  the  best  of  company :  he  always 
thought  her,  before,  as  dry  as  a  chip. 


Familiar  as  Galbraith  was,  by  this 
time,  with  the  shortest  roads  leading  to 
his  grandfather's  house,  it  was  dusk  be- 
fore he  came  in  sight  of  the  long  rows 
of  glittering  windows  with  their  back- 
ground of  mountain,  and  the  unrolling, 
ash-colored  drifts  of  smoke  overhead. 
He  stopped  at  the  great  gate  to  take  out 
the  key  which  Honora  had  given  him, 
and  at  the  moment  a  man's  footsteps 
came  down  the  carriage  -  road  within, 
stumbling  over  first  a  boulder  and  then  a 
stump,  and  Doctor  Pritchard's  wiry  voice 
broke  out  in  an  unwonted  oath. 

On  he  came,  grumbling  :  "Just  what 
might  be  looked  for  under  that  woman's 
management !  Slip-shod  and  violent ! 
If  her  horses  know  how  to  double  these 
snags,  they  have  more  wit  than  herself! 
So,  ho  !  You're  here,  eh  ?"  with  a  sort 
of  snarl,  which  had  in  it  something  of 
mortification.  He  stopped,  held  the  open 
gate  with  one  hand  and  barred  the  way, 
looking  up  steadily  at  Galbraith. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  sorry,  on  the  whole, 
to  have  met  you.  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  say  nothing  of  that  matter  be- 
fore I  go  :  I've  been  thinking  it  over. 
I  believe  you're  repentant,  and  God  for- 
bid I'd  throw  a  stone  in  the  way  of  any 
man  who  is  trying  to  get  back  to  the 
right     road."       His     sandy     eyebrows 


DALLAS    GALBRAITLL 


127 


twitched,  and  his  contracted  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Dallas. 

''  I  am  not  repentant,"  broke  in  the 
young  fellow,  roughly.  "  Unless  you 
force  me  to  repent  of  my  stupidity  in 
telling  my  story  to  you.  The  truth  must 
have  been  rare  in  your  life.  Doctor 
Pritchard,  you  know  so  little  how  to 
use  it." 

"  So  you  bandy  words  about  it,  do 
you  ?"  putting  out  his  hand  to  stop 
him  ;  and  when  Dallas  paused,  remaining 
uneasily  silent  for  a  moment.  "  I  tell 
you,  young  man,  I  have  not  been  vexed 
in  this  way  for  years  !  I  never  was  de- 
ceived before  in  a  man  when  I  relied 
on  instinct.  There's  not  a  line  in  your 
face  that  will  warrant  you  in  being  a 
humbug.  I've  been  in  at  the  Stone- 
post  Farm-house.  I've  been  talking  to 
old  James  Galbraith  about  you." 

"  You  have  been  there  ?  Did  you  tell 
my  story  to  James  Galbraith?"  said  Dal- 
las, in  an  altered  voice,  and  suddenly 
standing  still. 

"  I  did  not  tell  it.  I — well,  I  cannot 
rid  myself  of  likings  and  prejudices  so 
easily  as  some  men.  I  found  that  Mr. 
Galbraith  was  impressed  by  you  as  I 
had  been,  though  he's  crotchety  —  a 
phrenologist.  I  don't  wait  to  rap  on  a 
man's  skull  to  know  if  I  trust  him  or 
not.  Well — good-bye,  Galbraith,  good- 
bye !"  making  way  for  him  to  pass  as 
hastily  as  he  had  detained  him.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  are  truly  repentant.  I  will  keep 
your  secret.  I  will  leave  this  place  in 
the  morning,  never  to  return,  in  all  prob- 
ability, and  if  you  can  make  friends 
here,  I'll  not  stand  in  your  way." 

"  Good-bye,  Doctor  Pritchard."  Dal- 
las looked  after  the  jerky,  lean  figure 
going  down  the  road  with  a  wrench  at 
his  heart.  It  was  the  first  friend  he  had 
gained  since  he  began  his  new  life — 
gained  and  lost.  The  Professor,  on  his 
part,  walked  quickly,  uncertainly,  a  few 
steps,  then  slackened  his  pace  :  "  I  do 
not  believe  the  fellow  will  stay  here 
when  I'm  gone,  to  be  disgraced  by  hav- 
ing been  left  in  the  lurch.  I  wonder 
if  he  has  any  friends  in  the  world.  He's 
reformed — if  he  ever  was  guilty.  Tut ! 
tut!"  and  secretly  rating  John  Pritchard 


for  a  fool,  he  hurried  on  to  the  brow  of 
the  next  hill.  Then  it  occurred  to  him 
to  wish  that  he  had  heard  Galbraith's 
story  through,  at  any  rate :  he  hesitated, 
half  turned  back,  peering  down  into  the 
gathering  twilight.  But  he  was  too  late  • 
the  road  was  vacant ;  and  the  Doctor 
went  gravely  on  to  his  lodging  in  the 
village. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

Dallas,  passing  among  the  crooked 
apple  trees  in  the  orchard,  came  direct 
to  a  long,  low  parallelogram  of  a  house 
with  glass  sides  that  ran  along  the  upper 
edge.  He  never  had  seen  forcing  or 
green-houses,  but  he  thought  that  this 
must  be  one.  Unlocking  the  door,  he 
entered,  stumbled  over  the  crocks  in  a 
dark  tool-house,  and  then — came  into 
fairyland.  Two  or  three  lamps  made  a 
haze  like  moonlight  over  the  rising  levels 
of  flowers  and  orchids  which  stretched 
I  into  far-off  shadows.  It  was  a  new  ex- 
perience to  Galbraith.  Outside  was 
foggy,  nipping  November:  within,  the 
dim,  suggestive  lights  of  a  damp,  sultry 
summer  night,  its  passionate  perfumes 
and  rank  green  foliage,  which  here  and 
there  took  a  soul  to  itself  in  a  sud- 
den flame  of  scarlet  blossoms  or  white 
hlies. 

Now,  it  was  certainly  not  Madam 
Galbraith's  habit  to  light  her  green- 
house with  the  chamber  lamps.  If 
Honora  had  not  been,  in  her  own  opin- 
ion, so  practical  and  thoroughly  honest 
a  young  woman,  one  might  have  sus- 
pected her  of  "  setting  the  stage." 

Scene — Fairyland.   Enter  Titania. 

If  she  had  done  it,  she  chose  her  au- 
dience badly.  For  a  moment  Dallas 
stood  bewildered  with  the  enchantment 
of  color  and  fragrance,  "  over-canopied 
with  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglan- 
tine ;"  then  he  pushed  his  hat  back  on 
his  head  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  going  about  with  a  puzzled, 
eager  whistle,  peering — not  at  the  flow- 
ers, but  the  earth  in  which  they  grew. 


128 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


Musk-roses  did  not  belong  to  Novem- 
ber ;  and  here  was  the  gray  moss  of  the 
sea-woods,  which  could  not  possibly  take 
root  in  this  alluvial  soil ;  and  the  knobby 
prickle-bush  of  the  Jersey  sands,  which 
never  would  flower  for  him,  bursting  into 
a  glory  of  red,  voluptuous  flowers  ;  and 
those  must  be  the  Japan  lilies,  and  that 
the  famous  Espiritu-Santo  flower,  of 
which  he  had  read,  but  never  hoped  to 
see.  All  these  in  summer  bloom  in  No- 
vember among  the  Ohio  hills  !  As  for 
enchantment,  or  a  possible  Titania,  that 
was  hardly  within  the  scope  of  Dallas' 
brain. 

"  So  money  can  do  this,  eh  ?  Money P'' 
was  what  he  said,  with  a  transient  fancy 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  waste 
years  in  search  of  knowledge  in  Mexico 
and  Japan,  when  a  hand  stretched  out 
full  of  dollars  could  bring  Mexico  and 
Japan  under  his  nose.  AU  seasons  of 
the  year  in  one. 

Now,  Honora  was  waiting  in  the  dark 
behind  the  little  glass  door  in  the  corner. 
She  had  had  time  to  realize  the  crisis  in 
life  which  this  night  was  to  herself  and 
him  ;  and  I  leave  it  to  any  woman  if  it 
was  not  unbearable,  at  the  very  moment 
when  she  was  going  to  appear  like  the 
fairy  queen  to  usher  him  into  his  inher- 
itance and  make  herself  a  beggar,  to  see 
this  fellow  go  sniffing  and  thrusting  his 
fingers  into  a  parcel  of  pots,  muttering, 
"One-third  loam;  one,  wood-ashes  ;  the 
remainder — what  the  deuce  is  the  re- 
mainder y 

"The  man  was  a  machine — a  log  !" 
Honora  was  not  the  first  woman  who 
had  said  so. 

"  He  would  surely  recollect  why  he 
had  come  in  a  minute,  however;"  and 
she  waited,  smiling,  her  hand  on  the 
latch.  But  when,  so  far  from  recollect- 
ing anything  about  it,  he  pressed  on 
through  the  flowers  into  the  forcing- 
room  and  prodded  and  tested  t/iat  earth, 
and  then  stood  spell-bound  over  the  beds 
of  miserable  httle  sprouts,  she  opened 
the  latch  with  a  snap  and  came  down 
into  fairyland.  He  neither  saw  nor 
heard  her,  though  he  had  turned  back 
again  and  was  stooping  over  an  aqua- 
rium.    What  could  he  find  in  the  forlorn 


perch  and  sun-fish  to  bring  such  eager- 
ness into  his  eyes  or  the  hard,  com- 
pressed look  into  his  mouth  ? 

"  Do  you  understand  the  language  of 
the  fishes  as  well  as  of  the  rocks,  Mr. 
Galbraith  ?  They  are  mine,  but  I  always 
found  them  tiresome  enough,"  with  the 
impatient  snap  of  the  latch  echoing  in 
her  voice. 

Dallas  started  and  looked  up.  He 
never  had  seen  any  vision  like  that  of 
the  young  girl  that  stood  before  him,  her 
unassertant  beauty  thrown  into  relief  by 
the  art  of  rose-colored  drapery  and  deli- 
cate laces.  She  knew  that  he  had  not, 
and  that  as  long  as  he  lived  the  picture 
would  be  one  which  he  would  remember. 
But  Dallas  had  his  own  old-fashioned, 
self-taught  notions  of  deference,  and  af- 
ter the  first  glance  of  wondering  delight 
he  bowed  to  her  gravely  and  turned  back 
to  his  fishes. 

"  It  is  quite  new  to  me — this  contri- 
vance for  studying  their  habits,"  he  said. 
"And  there  is  a  balance  of  animal  and 
vegetable  life  here  that  is  curious  and  ad- 
mirable. It  is  all  a  new  world  to  me," 
with  a  look  which  comprised  the  forcing- 
rooms,  flowers,  and  Honora  fancied,  her- 
self. 

"  Is  it  ?"  with  a  pleased  little  flutter. 
"  I  thought  you  would  like  it !  You  are 
coming  to  claim  your  birthright,  you 
know  ;  coming  to  take  your  place  for 
life  among  us  ;  and  it  would  never  do 
for  that  to  happen  in  the  dining-room 
among  the  dishes,  for  instance,  or  the 
parlor.  You  are  a  naturalist ;  so  I 
thought  this  was  the  proper  place  for 
you  to  come  home.  Nature  welcoming 
you  back,  I  thought.  Now,  if  Madam 
Galbraith  knew,  she'd  as  soon  as  not 
meet  you — well,  on  the  stairs.  What 
were  you  thinking  of,  looking  at  those 
fishes  ?     Could  you  tell  me  ?" 

To  her  surprise,  Dallas  hesitated.  "  I 
would  rather  not  have  told  you.  Miss 
Dundas ;  but  it  does  not  matter.  I  was 
thinking  of  all  that  money  was  worth  to 
a  man.  I  never  understood  it  as  I  have 
done  since  I  came  into  this  house  to- 
night." 

"  Money  ?"  said  Honora,  bewildered. 
"They  are  not  worth  so  much — these.' 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


129 


with  a  slighting  motion  of  her  hand  to- 
ward the  flowers. 

'•  No,  I  suppose  not,"  thoughtfully. 
"  But  it  is  the  facility  for  study  ;  as  if 
science  was  mapped  out  and  brought 
under  your  very  eyes — put  into  your 
hand.  You  do  not  know  how  new  it  all 
is  to  me,  Miss  Dundas,"  with  an  embar- 
rassed laugh,  which  died  into  sudden 
silence. 

"These  plants  and  tanks,  and  the 
knowledge  of  which  they  are  hints,  are 
commonplace  things  to  you,  but  they  are 
like  glimpses  to  me  of  a  world  where  I 
never  have  been,"  Dallas  said  after 
a  while,  in  a  heavy,  unwilling  tone,  as 
though  the  words  were  forced  out  by 
some  uncontrollable  mental  pressure.  "A 
world  where  knowledge  is  the  very  air 
you  breathe.  You,  and  men  and  women 
like  you,  were  born  in  it.  I  did  not 
know,  until  to-night,  how  far  outside  I 
was ;"  and  again  his  eyes  turned  from 
tlie  face  before  him  with  an  indescribable, 
wistful,  hungry  look  about  him,  as  though 
measuring  the  life  which  he  had  missed 
and  the  few  years  left  in  which  to  master 
it. 

"  You — you  overrate  the  distance  be- 
tween us,  Mr.  Galbraith,"  said  Honora, 
awkwardly.  "  These  things  seem  very 
insigniticant  to  me." 

"  Because  you  are  used  to  their  mean- 
ings. I  am  a  very  ignorant  man.  Miss 
Dundas.  To-night  I  feel  as  a  man  might 
who  had  spent  his  hfe  in  making  brick, 
when  he  sees  a  great,  finished  temple  for 
tlie  first  time." 

Honora  understood  him.  She  turned 
away,  pretending  to  pick  the  dead  leaves 
from  a  bush,  feeling  that  he  forgot  her 
presence  as  soon  as  he  had  done  speak- 
ing. For  a  man  to  live  to  that  age  and 
find  himself  to  be  ignorant — hopelessly 
behind  all  other  men — then  the  sting 
would  enter  the  soul,  she  thought.  As 
she  snipped  the  leaves  away,  this  loss 
and  pain  of  Dallas'  seemed  to  be  more 
to  her  than  any  of  her  own  which  she 
had  ever  known.  Her  breast  began  to 
throb  and  the  scalding  tears  swelled  to 
her  eyes.  That  frightened  her.  What 
ailed  her  ?  What  was  Dallas  Galbraith 
to    her  1     Why    should    she,    with    her 


French  ideas  of  decorum,  have  met  him 
here  alone — have  taken  his  fate  into  her 
own  hands  ?  It  was  now  as  if  his  soul 
was  her  soul,  the  mere  thought  of  his 
loss  wrenched  her  with  such  sharp  pain ; 
for  the  tears  were  bitter,  wrung  them- 
selves out  of  her  very  heart.  She  never 
had  made  even  her  uncle's  inner  self  her 
own  in  this  fashion. 

The  terror  of  that  consciousness  which 
comes  to  every  woman  some  time  in  life 
overtook  Honora.  She  hid  from  it- 
She  would  not  name  it  to  herself  "  Dal- 
las Galbraith  is  nothing  to  me — nothing 
to  me  !  I  brought  him  here  for  love  of 
justice — to  give  him  his  place—to  make 
myself  a  beggar,"  she  told  herself,  vehe- 
mently. Presently  she  turned  to  him : 
she  thought  he  did  not  look  at  her,  but 
Dallas  knew  that  all  the  flush  and  sparkle 
had  died  out  in  her  ;  saw  even  the  clutch 
with  which  her  fingers  held  on  the  bench 
at  her  side.  He  was  as  sensitive  to  a 
change  in  her  mood  or  looks,  and  as 
stolidly  dumb  about  it,  as  that  flowerless 
cactus  was  to  the  heat  and  shadows  of 
the  sun  which  warmed  it. 

It  was  a  lucky  fancy,  she  thought,  to 
bring  him  here.  If  he  had  determined 
to  persevere  in  his  stupid  resolve  not  to 
make  himself  known,  the  signs  of  wealth 
in-doors  would  not  have  touched  or 
tempted  him  ;  but  here  the  grappling- 
hooks  had  taken  a  firm  hold  of  him. 

"  You  understand  now,"  she  said, 
"what  wealth  will  give  you.  With 
money  a  man  can  educate — can  make 
himself  what  he  will." 

"  I  do  understand.  It  is  a  great 
power.  The  man  is  a  fool  who  slights 
it." 

He  stood  in  the  door  which  swung  open 
into  the  orchard  as  he  spoke,  looking 
gravely  out  into  the  gathering  twilight 
Honora,  a  step  or  two  within,  waited. 
When  he  glanced  hurriedly  in,  the  tem- 
pered silvery  light,  the  green  distance, 
the  lilies  and  perfume,  the  woman's  deli- 
cate figure  draped  in  rose-colored  mist, 
and  her  face,  which  gave  life  to  the  whole, 
all  seemed  to  wait  for  him,  expectant,  al- 
luring, eager.  It  was  but  to  keep  silence 
about  that  one  foul  misadventure — to  lie,  it 
might  be,  once  or  twice,  and  to  enter  on 


I30 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


possession  of  what  was  to  him  a  royal 
inheritance.  Within  there,  knowledge 
would  come  in  the  very  air,  breathed  in 
the  midst  of  ease  and  luxury.  Within, 
there  would  be  a  chance — poor,  improb- 
able, but  yet  a  chance — to  win  her. 

Without,  there  was  an  aimless  journey 
into  the  world,  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket  or  a  friendly  face  to  meet,  to  con- 
quer knowledge  in  poor,  meagre  morsels, 
struggling  for  life  at  the  same  time. 

There  was  an  undue  share  of  mulish 
perverseness  in  Galbraith's  blood.  At 
this  prospect,  without  any  show  of  rea- 
son, his  muscles  stiffened  and  he  began 
to  breathe  free.  Honora  and  her  world 
became  less  fair  to  him. 

"  Will  you  come  in  V  she  said,  softly. 
"  Home  is  waiting  for  you.  It  will  be 
the  old  story  of  the  prince  found  among 
the  herdsmen.  But  we  will  keep  the 
secret  to  ourselves  of  the  coal-pits  at 
Scranton,"  growing  hurried  and  unsteady 
when  she  saw  that  he  did  not  move. 
She  remembered  then  that  the  choice  for 
him  to  make  was  for  life,  and  stood  si- 
lent. Once  she  half  held  out  her  hand, 
and  then  let  it  fall,  trembling.  It  mat- 
tered more  to  her  life  than  his,  she 
thought,  after  all,  whether  he  went  away. 
When  he  remained  silent,  looking  out 
steadily,  she  spoke  to  him  again  :  "  Will 
you  come  in  ?" 

"  No,"  slowly,  looking  her  in  the  face 
as  he  spoke.  "  It  is  not  home  to  me. 
I  will  come  back  when  I  am  fit  to  take 
my  place  among  you." 

She  shook  her  head:  "You  will  never 
come ;  or  it  will  be  too  late.  Death  may 
come  to  any  of  us." 

"And  you  may  be  gone.  You  will  do 
as  other  women  do — marry." 

"That  may  be,"  with  a  laugh,  but 
growing  suddenly  pale. 

"It  would  be  but  natural,"  with  a  long 
breath,  turning  away.  He  was  grave 
and  stern,  as  though  it  was  his  own 
death  and  not  life  he  was  planning. 

"If  you  have  decided  to  follow  your 
whim,  then,  and  go — " 

"  It  is  not  a  whim,"  slowly.  "  It 
seems  even  to  me  hke  the  choice  of  a 
madman.  You  suppose  I  do  not  know 
what    I    am    giving    up.      I    do    know. 


Chances  which — which  you  would  never 
think  of.  Miss  Dundas.  These  things 
matter  more  to  a  man  than  a  woman." 

"  You  have  your  own  reasons,  doubt- 
less," coldly. 

"  I  have  this  reason,"  turning  to  her 
quickly  :  "  I  have  not  moral  courage  nor 
strength  enough  now  to  live  among  you 
and  be  myself— to  tell  my  own  story  hon- 
estly and  boldly.  Later,  it  may  be  differ- 
ent. If  it  is  not,  I  never  will  return. 
And  then  there  is  a  sort  of  gloss  and 
polish  over  all  the  world  you  live  in — an 
imitation  of  each  other,  a  hiding  of  one's 
self  It  is  hateful  to  me ;  but  if  I  went 
among  you  now,  I  know  that  I  would 
try  to  gain  it.  I  would  begin  to  borrow 
my  opinions  on  this  side  and  on  that.  I 
would  soon  be  quite  contented  to  smother 
up  all  my  past  life  for  ever." 

Honora  listened  intently.  "Am  /false 
and  factitious  ?"  she  said,  leaning  forward 
in  her  eagerness  for  his  reply. 

Dallas  hesitated.  But  the  sincere 
eyes  before  him  commanded  the  answer : 
"  I  had  an  odd  feeling  about  you,  Miss 
Dundas,  since  the  day  I  first  met  you," 
he  said,  smiling.  "  Something  of  that 
with  which  one  wants  to  strip  the  husk 
and  silk  from  an  ear  of  corn  and  find  the 
kernel  inside.  But  the  husk  and  silk 
with  you — " 

"  Are  borrowed.  Now  that  is  true  !" 
earnestly.  "  I've  tried  to  give  myself 
a  good  character  so  long,  you  under- 
stand. I  did  not  suspect  you  of  shrewd- 
ness. But  no  matter  !  Have  you  told 
me  all  of  your  reasons  for  going?" 

"  No.  I  have  been  hampered  all  my 
life,  and  I  want  to  feel  my  own  feet  un- 
der me.  I  would  rather  earn  my  bread 
and  butter  than  sit  down  as  your  new- 
found prince  to  have  my  lap  filled  with 
gold.  And  I  believe  I  would  rather, 
when  it  comes  to  the  choice,  hammer 
out  for  myself  bits  of  knowledge  up  on 
the  hills  yonder  than  receive  it  all  here 
without  any  effort.  It  is  a  vain  and  a 
doltish  feeling,  but  I  must  work  it  out 
I  am  a  born  boor,  perhaps." 

"Then  that  is  all.  I  can  do  no 
more,"  said  Honora. 

"If  it  is  possible,  I  wish  to  see  my 
mother  before  I  go." 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


'31 


"  She  is  not  here.  Colonel  Pervis 
drove  her  to  town  this  morning.  She 
will  be  back  to-morrow." 

They  both  were  silent  after  that. 
There  was  no  reason  why  Dallas  should 
stay  longer.  His  choice  was  made. 
Honora,  drawn  back  a  little,  her  eyes 
dropped  on  the  floor,  waited,  he  thought, 
only  to  say  good-bye.  But  he  did  not 
say  good-bye.  He  never  knew,  after- 
ward, how  long  he  stood  there,  or  of 
what  he  thought  as  he  gazed  at  the 
downcast  face.  She  knew,  without  look- 
ing at  him,  and  turned  from  him  with  a 
shiver : 

"  I  must  leave  you  now.  If  you  will 
go  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  go." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  keep  your 
secret  ?" 

"  Yes  :  until  I  come  back." 

A  faint  heat  began  to  rise  in  Honora's 
cheeks.  If  she  could  not  take  this  hero 
by  the  hand  and  lead  him  in  to  her  un- 
cle, it  was  something  to  know  that  he 
had  gone  out  like  an  old  Crusader  into 
the  world  seeking  the  true  knighthood — 
something  to  hold  his  secret  in  her  hand, 
a  tie  between  themselves  alone,  some  day 
to  draw  him  gently  back  to  claim  his  own. 
It  was  romance  and  mystery  enough  to 
comfort  any  woman. 

"  You  may  trust  me,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper,  a  precaution  which  she  had 
Beglected  before. 

Another  silence,  in  which  he  waited. 
But  still  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

«'  When  will  you  come  back  ?" 

'•  In  a  year.  I  will  try  what  strength 
I  have,  and  if  I  succeed,  I  will  come 
and  claim  my  place." 

"  If  you  do  not  succeed  ?" 

"  Then  I  will  come  to  you  to  say 
farewell,  Miss  Dundas,  for  ever.  I  will 
ask  you  to  forget  that  I  ever  crossed 
your  path." 

He  came  closer  to  her,  involuntarily, 
as  he  spoke.  The  dreadful  constraint 
and  weight  which  oppressed  him  when- 
ever he  tried  to  drag  his  secret  thoughts 
to  the  light  were  upon  him.  He  looked 
down  from  his  grave,  square  height  on 
Honora  where  she  stood :  her  hands 
were  clasped  and  resting  on  a  heap  of 


dead  moss.  They  were  so  bloodless  that 
he  wondered,  vaguely,  if  they  were  not 
icy  cold,  and  went  on  hurriedly  stumbling 
through  his  words :  "  You  must  not 
think  I  have  not  seen  the  sacrifice  you 
would  have  made.  I  am  not  so  ignorant 
that  a  noble,  true  woman — " 

There  he  stopped.  Her  bosom  was 
heaving,  her  chin  quivering  as  Matt's 
did  when  he  choked  back  the  tears. 
Galbraith  made  one  step  that  brought 
him  beside  her.  Could  it  be  that  it  cost 
her  anything  for  him  to  go  ? 

The  white,  cold  hands  were  very  near 
him.  He  clasped  his  own  behind  him 
resolutely.  He  had  no  thought  of  her 
as  the  beautiful,  richly-dressed  lady ; 
but  he  did  remember  that  the  taint  of 
the  prison  was  on  his  flesh,  and  until 
she  knew  it  he  had  no  right  to  touch 
her. 

"  I  will  keep  your  secret,"  she  said, 
"and  a  year  from  now  I  will  look  for 
you  to  come  back.  Good-bye,  Cousin 
Dallas."  She  held  out  her  hand,  and 
when  he  did  not  take  it  looked  wonder- 
ingly  up  at  him. 

Poor  Dallas  !  All  that  he  knew  was 
the  face  upturned  to  his.  He  had  failed  to 
recognize  the  fairy  queen  in  her  elaborate 
silken  sheen.  A  woman  was  a  woman 
to  him  ;  and  in  this  swift  moment  he 
absorbed  every  trifling  detail  that  set 
this  one  apart  from  others,  and  gathered 
it  all  into  his  honest,  stupid  heart,  to  feed 
on  hereafter.  This  gown  she  wore,  he 
thought,  was  the  very  color  of  the  inside 
of  the  shells  he  used  to  find  at  low  tide ; 
and  her  eyes  were  dark  and  brown  as 
the  kelp  washed  up  on  the  shore :  the 
old  friendly  Manasquan  life  came  up  as 
the  echo  of  a  far-off"  home-song.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  was  very 
near  to  him — nearer  than  any  living  be- 
ing. On  the  night  he  first  saw  her 
he  knew  that,  when,  from  the  world  from 
which  he  was  shut  out,  she  had  held  her 
hand  down  to  him.  Before  he  came 
back,  she  would  marry — in  her  own  class. 
Not  a  convict. 

But  with  the  quiet  assurance  of  real 
love,  he  knew  himself  to  be  near  to  her — 
nearer  to  her  than  any  other  man  could 
ever  be.     Now,  he  was  intolerably  alone  ; 


132 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


— the  old  stain  would  shut  him  for  ever 
into  a  solitary  life. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 
]       For  his   answer  he   took  her  in  his 
I  arms  and  kissed  her. 

He  quickly  put  her  down,  white  with 
indignation,  and  drew  back  from  her. 
"  You  think  me  rude  and  vulgar.  I  am 
sorry.  I  could  not  help  it."  He  added 
earnestly  :  "  It  does  not  seem  wrong  or 
vulgar  to  me." 

Honora  made  an  imperious  gesture 
of  dismissal:   "Go!    I — I  am  sorry." 

These  words  went  like  a  knife  to  Gal- 
braith's  heart.  She  had  trusted  him  as 
an  equal,  and  now  she  thought  him  a 
boor.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment  sor- 
rowfully enough,  bowed  without  speak- 
ing, and  went  slowly  down  the  hill.  "  But 
I  was  not  wrong  nor  vulgar,"  he  said, 
doggedly  to  himself.  While  Honora, 
when  he  was  gone,  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  laughed  hysterically.  Could 
Colonel  Pervis  or  Mr.  Dour  have  done 
this  thing  ?  But  they  were  thorough-bred 
— gentlemen.  How  could  one  know 
what  to  expect. from  a  wild  man  of  the 
woods  ?  It  was  as  if  one  had  laid  hold 
on  Behemoth  ;  and  then  she  sat  down 
among  the  flower-pots  and  sobbed  and 
cried  until  her  heart  was  sick. 

The  Indian  Queen,  long  before  Gal- 
braith's  return,  was  sound  asleep  in  the 
moonlight.  Even  Turk,  the  watch-dog, 
who  regarded  robbers  as  one  of  the  illu- 
sions of  his  youth,  was  as  usual  stretched 
on  the  porch  snoring,  his  head  between 
his  paws.  Dallas  sat  down  on  the  mossy 
pump-trough  :  his  brain  was  on  fire,  the 
close  air  of  the  house  choked  him.  Why 
should  a  man  be  shut  up  in  a  box  until 
after  he  was  dead  ?  After  all,  any  house 
was  a  jail !  He  must  have  the  free  air 
to  think  over  his  future  life  clearly. 
But  he  did  not  think  at  all.  That  he 
ought  to  be  miserable  was  plain  enough. 
No  man  could  be  in  a  worse  case.  To- 
morrow he  must  go  out  to  face  the  world, 
penniless  and  untaught,  with  the  leprous 
mark  of  the  prison  upon  him,  awaking 
suspicion  against  him  in  the  kindest, 
broadest,  human  sympathy.  The  wo- 
man who  already  counted  for  more  than 


all  the  world  to  him  he  had  driven  fi-om 
him,  to-night,  irretrievably. 

"  It  is  a  dark  day,"  said  Dallas. 

There  was  heat  in  the  man's  long 
jaws  which  had  not  been  there  since  the 
old  IVIanasquan  days.  The  grave,  dark- 
blue  eyes  were  sparkling  and  alive. 
"  Hillo,  Turk  !"  he  called  ;  and  when 
the  dog  came  sleepily  to  him  he  pulled 
him  up  and  wrestled  with  him,  laughing, 
and  with  no  gentle  hand,  as  if  life,  and 
youth,  and  good-fellowship  were  brimful 
in  his  heart,  and  he  must  find  some  liv- 
ing thing  to  caress,  if  it  were  but  a  dog. 
When  Turk  went  off  again,  surly,  to  his 
nap,  Galbraith  stood  up,  stretching  his 
long  arms  restlessly,  looking  down  the 
road  and  then  up  at  the  sky.  He  could 
not  sleep.  Of  all  his  strong,  brawny 
body  there  was  but  one  conscious  point 
— his  mouth,  on  which  a  touch  lay  light 
and  warm.  Had  he  found  in  it  to-night 
that  cordial  which  his  hard  early  life  had 
never  tasted  ?  Or  was  he  simply  one  of 
those  men  who  never  know  when  fate 
has  worsted  them  ? 

However  that  may  be,  the  Dallas  Gal- 
braith who  walked  vehemently  up  the 
hill  to  the  woods,  only  to  throw  himself 
down  under  a  beech  tree,  was  ten  years 
a  younger  man  than  the  one  who  had 
gone  out  from  the  Indian  Queen  this 
morning.  The  luck  which  was  against 
him  had  vanished  out  of  his  sight.  As 
for  the  disaster  that  closed  in  upon  him 
on  every  side,  the  thought  of  it  only 
roused  in  him  the  hot,  buoyant  glow  with 
which  he  used  to  fight  his  way  along  the 
beach  through  the  nor'-easters  that  wet 
him  to  the  skin.  He  was  going  to  live 
out  of  doors  now,  thank  God  !  He  had 
done  with  houses.  He  began  to  troll 
out  one  of  the  old  fishing-songs,  and  his 
magnificent  voice  echoed  through  the 
woods  like  a  trumpet-note  of  victory. 
He  was  so  busy  with  his  own  fancies 
and  his  song  that  he  did  not  hear 
the  rolling  wheels  of  a  buggy  on  the 
road. 

"  Ho,  Galbraith  !  Galbraith  !  There's 
nobody  fool  enough  to  be  shouting  in  the 
woods  at  midnight  but  that  fellow !  Gal- 
braith, I  say!" 

The  shouting  suddenly  ceased,  and  in 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


'33 


a  moment  Dallas  came  down  into  the 
road,  falling  into  his  usual  grave  compo- 
sure when  he  saw  who  had  summoned 
him. 

''  You  are  late  abroad,  Doctor  Pritch- 
ard  ?"  resting  his  hand  on  the  whip-rest 
of  the  buggy. 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  night  is  the  same  as 
the  day  to  me.  It  will  be  to  you  when 
you  are  as  old  a  campaigner.  I — I'm 
atraid  we  will  have  rain  to-morrow." 

"  It  is  likely." 

"  Yes ;  those  woolly  clouds  are  a  bad 
sign."  Tlien  the  Doctor  flicked  his 
whip,  and  finding  a  knot  in  the  lash 
picked  it  out,  while  Dallas  watched  him. 
He  could  not  help  it  that  his  heart  beat 
fast  or  his  breath  choked  him.  What  if 
the  road  was  going  to  open  level  before 
his  feet  t  What  if,  after  all  the  fierce 
temptation,  he  had  done  right  and  yet 
not  lost  his  chance? 

'•  I  drove  over  purposely  to  see  you, 
Galbraith,"  hesitated  the  Doctor. 

Dallas  nodded  in  silence. 

"  I  was  going  to  the  Indian  Queen, 
but  I  heard  yoM  up  there.  You  must 
carry  a  light  heart,  lilting  in  that  fashion 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Well,  I've 
been  thinking  over  that  matter — the 
story  you  told  me,  eh  ?" 

Dallas  stroked  the  old  horse  softly. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  you  are  in  a  better 
mood,  Galbraith.  You  were  angry  and 
disrespectful  this  morning.  A  young 
man.  first  of  all,  should  master  his  tem- 
per. You  prevented  me  from  seeing  the 
thing  clearly.  Now,  when  I  came  to 
think  it  over — " 

"  You  determined  to  trust  me,"  quietly 
suggested  Dallas  when  the  pause  grew 
awkward.  "  I  do  not  think  you  will  re- 
pent it." 

"  I  have  determined  to  trust  myself," 
hastily.  "  I  never  found  my  judgment 
mislead  me  yet.  And  Mr.  Galbraith  has 
formed  the  same  opinion  of  you  ;  though 
that  weighs  but  little  with  me.  He's  a 
phrenologist.  There  was  Colonel  Lad- 
doun — as  clever,  gentlemanly  a  fellow  as 
ever  lived — yet  the  Galbraiths  would 
have  none  of  him.  No  :  James  Gal-  • 
braith's  opinion  does  not  count  for  much 
with  me.     But   I've  determined  to  risk 


it  all  on  my  judgment  of  your  face,  Gal- 
braith. Convict  or  not,  I'll  take  you 
with  me  to-morrow,  if  you  will  go." 
The  respect  which  he  felt  for  the  young 
man  betrayed  itself  involuntarily  in  his 
tone  more  than  his  words. 

"Yes,  I  will  go.  I  am  glad  you 
trusted  me."  There  was  a  heartiness 
and  feeling  in  his  voice  which  took  the 
Doctor  by  assault. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  boy !"  suddenly, 
stooping  forward.  "  I  believe  your  story, 
every  syllable.  Some  men  have  damna- 
ble usage  in  this  world.  I'll  do  what  I 
can  to  set  it  right  for  you." 

The  men  shook  hands,  and  then,  as 
men  do  when  a  word  of  earnest  feeling 
escapes  them,  began,  in  a  hasty,  ashamed 
way,  to  talk  of  the  horse  and  the  chances 
of  rain.  "  We'll  make  an  early  start," 
said  Pritchard,  "  I'll  take  this  road  and 
call  for  you  at  the  Queen  by  eight  o'clock 
— sharp.  Well,  good-bye,"  pulling  his 
reins.  "  Don't  leave  your  voice  behind 
you,  either.  It's  good  company  on  a 
long  day's  tramp — a  tenor  voice  like 
your's.  I  know ;  I  have  heard  good 
music  in  my  time.  Well,  good-night !" 
looking  back,  after  he  had  driven  a  little 
way,  with  a  nod  and  smile  again  to  re- 
assure the  young  fellow. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

Mr.  Dour,  the  next  morning,  rose  as 
usual  with  the  dawn,  for  the  young  man 
was  in  reality  a  hard-plodding  student. 
Gerty,  as  fresh  and  sweet  as  a  spice- 
pink,  always  was  the  first  of  the  house- 
hold to  break  in  on  him  in  the  library ; 
but  to-day  Miss  Dundas  came  in  for  a 
book.  Paul  sprang  to  meet  her,  per- 
suading himself  he  was  glad  of  the  rare 
chance,  for  his  suit  was  lagging  in  this 
quarter ;  but  Miss  Dundas  was  pre- 
occupied and  grave,  in  haste  to  get  a 
book  from  the  top  shelf,  which  proved  to 
be  Humboldt's  "Cosmos,"  and  two  or 
three  others  which  she  thought  she 
would  need  for  reference.  She  was  as 
worn  and  her  eyes  were  as  sunken  as 
though    she    had   spent  all  night   over 


134 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


them.  She  was  a  very  homely  young 
woman,  Dour  thought,  as  she  went  out 
loaded,  and  he  took  up  his  book  again  ; 
and  then  he  dropped  it,  considering 
whether  brain-power  did  or  did  not  tend 
to  injure  the  ideal  woman,  and  whether 
women  were  not,  after  all,  only  meant  to 
furnish  the  element  of  repose  in  this 
hurly-burly  of  life,  to  caress  away  care 
from  their  husband's  brows,  and  to  bring 
up  children. 

Mr.  Galbraith  laid  down  his  paper 
when  Honora  came  into  his  little  study 
and  began  to  sweep  the  sewing  from  her 
own  table  in  the  corner  and  to  pile  up 
her  books.  He  could  read  the  titles 
from  where  he  sat. 

"  Are  you  going  to  study,  my  dear  ?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  try  and  learn — some- 
thing," with  a  despairing  energy,  sitting 
down  with  her  chin  in  her  hands,  and 
beginning  at  the  first  chapter.  The 
clock  ticked  for  half  an  hour  before  she 
spoke. 

"  I've  laid  out  a  system  for  myself, 
uncle.  Do  you  think,  if  I  read  and  took 
notes,  and  all  that,  I  could  make  myself 
worth  anything  in — well,  in  a  year  V 

"  It  is  probable.  Have  you  had  an 
especial  call  toward  the  natural  sci- 
ences ?" 

There  was  a  little  pause :  "  One  must 
begin  somewhere.  That  seems  to  be 
the  only  knowledge  of  weight.  Lan- 
guages and  metaphysics — that  sort  of 
indoors  learning  makes  men  like  Mr. 
Dour." 

"  And  farming  and  hunting,  men  like 
Colonel  Pervis." 

"  I  would  be  very  sorry  for  the  world 
if  they  were  the  only  types  of  men — 
very  sorry,  indeed  !"  tartly,  dropping  her 
forehead  in  her  hands  and  going  to  work 
again. 

Mrs.  Rattlin,  at  breakfast,  suggested 
that  Honora  "looked  poorly.  Most 
young  girls  had  something  in  their  spines. 
A  white  of  ^g^,  now,  beaten  up  in  raw 
whisky,  was  excellent  before  meals." 
Madam  Galbraith  growled  assent,  and 
looked  keenly  at  her  niece  from  under 
her  shaggy  brows,  as  though  she  saw  a 
change  in  her  deeper  than  the  dark  scor- 
ing under  the   eyes.     The  eyes  them- 


selves were  full  of  meaning,  steady  and 
reticent  as  never  before.  The  shy  awk- 
wardness had  given  place  to  a  languid 
grace,  which  had  a  subtle  charm  for  the 
eyes  of  the  old  lady.  When  she  spoke 
to  the  people  about  her,  she  neither 
stammered  nor  hesitated  as  usual,  but  it 
was  as  indifferently  as  if  they  belonged 
to  a  world  to  which  she  had  long  since 
bidden  good-bye.  Her  very  voice  was 
new  to  Madam  Galbraith — natural,  and 
with  clear,  fine  cadences. 

"  What  has  altered  Honora  ?"  she 
demanded  sharply  of  her  husband,  after 
breakfast.  "There's  a  peculiar  steadi- 
ness that  comes  to  a  woman  when  she  is 
married  or  betrothed.  I  see  it  in  her 
now.  She  has  done  with  copying  others. 
She  is  herself  foj  the  rest  of  her  life. 
What  has  she  been  doing  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Hannah.  Studying 
Humboldt,  I  believe,"  tranquilly. 

"  Some  one  ought  to  know,"  anx- 
iously. "  I  must  take  better  care  of  the 
child." 

The  old  gentleman  lighted  a  cigar  and 
went  out  to  the  garden  walk,  looking 
in  each  time  that  he  passed  the  window 
at  the  light  flickering  over  his  darling's 
head,  bent  again  over  the  books.  The 
change  in  her  face  was  that  of  a  beautiful 
life  dawning  out  of  chaos,  he  thought,  and 
went  on  turning  his  wife's  rough  idea 
over  in  his  fanciful  way.  Love  coming 
in  to  a  woman's  nature  was  like  the  last 
stroke  of  an  artist's  pencil  to  the  land- 
scape ;  there  was  the  background  wait- 
ing— a  bit  of  heaven  and  a  bit  of  earth  : 
promise  of  summer  or  promise  of  storms. 
Then  the  solitary  human  figure  came 
in,  and  the  motionless  drama  took  in- 
stant life,  shape,  meaning.  The  pic- 
ture was  finished  for  ever.  Time  would 
make  no  essential  change — only  to  dim 
the  hues,  perhaps.  Having  finished 
his  cigar  and  his  meditation  together, 
he  went  up  to  the  window  and  opened 
it: 

"Are  Babe  and  I  left  out  of  the  plans 
for  the  year  1  Come  and  ride  with  me, 
Nora." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  time.  You 
see,  uncle,  I  have  been  living  in  a  world 
where  knowledge   was    the  very  air    I 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


135 


breathed  ;  and  you  have  no  idea  how 
dumb  I  am.  My  head  does  ache  horri- 
bly !"  giving  the  "Cosmos"  a  push  and 
coming  to  the  window. 

"  Yes  ;  go  put  on  your  habit.  I  am 
going  down  the  river-road.  I  will  meet 
Doctor  Pritchard  somewhere  there,  and 
bid  liim  good-bye." 

Honora  put  up  both  hands  to  shelter 
her  fi\ce  from  the  sun.  "  No,  I  will  not 
ride  this  morning,"  in  a  low  voice. 

Mr.  Galbraith  pulled  his  spectacles 
down  over  his  eyes  to  look  at  her. 
"The  air  is  from  the  mountains,"  he 
persisted.  "  I  thought  it  would  be  but 
friendly  to  meet  Pritchard  and  bid  him 
God-speed.  It  is  a  long,  dangerous 
journey  the  foolish  old  fellow  has  under- 
taken." 

"  You  had  better  go  with  your  uncle, 
Honora,"  said  Mrs.  Rattlin,  who  came 
up  just  then,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder 
in  her  motherly  way. 

But,  to  her  dismay,  the  tears  began  to 
roll  down  the  girl's  pale  cheeks.  "  I 
wish  you  would  not  worry  me,  uncle !" 
she  sobbed.  "  How  could  you  ask  me 
to  do  that  ?  How  could  you  ?  I  did 
not  know  it  was  a  dangerous  journey." 

"Go  take  your  ride,  Mr.  Galbraith," 
said  Mrs.  Rattlin,  quietly.  "  Don't  be 
uneasy  about  Honora.  It's  her  spine. 
Girls  are  all  weakly,  nervous  things  now- 
a-days.  Go  and  he  down  a  while,  Ho- 
nora dear." 

But  Honora  shpped  away  from  them 
both,  and  went  down,  slowly,  to  the  gar- 
den— to  the  orchard — into  the  green- 
house. As  she  watched  her  uncle's 
horse  coming  to  the  door,  ready  for  him 
to  mount,  the  tears  dried  and  her  face 
began  to  burn  hot  as  the  cactus-blooms 
behind  her.  In  a  little  while  he  would 
be  on  the  hill-road,  where  Doctor  Pritch- 
ard must  pass. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward,  when 
Mr.  Galbraith  stopped  his  horse  to  un- 
fasten the  gate,  there  stood  Miss  Dun- 
das  waiting,  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame. 

"  I  cut  some  flowers  for  you,  uncle." 

Mr.  Galbraith  saw  that  his  green- 
house had  been  altogether  rifled.  "But 
I  like  out-door  flowers  best,  you  know, 
Nora." 


"  You  need  not  keep  them  then," 
eagerly.  "Give  them  to  your  friend, 
Doctor  Pritchard,  if  you  choose." 

"  From  you,  Honora  ?" 

"  No,  uncle.  My  name  must  not  be 
mentioned  there,"  with  sudden  emphatic 
gravity. 

After  Mr.  Galbraith's  horse  had  trotted 
down  the  road,  she  leaned  a  long  time 
on  the  gate,  thinking.  She  was  sure 
that  Dallas  would  guess  that  she  had 
cut  the  flowers  for  her  uncle.  She  pic- 
tured him,  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  this 
morning,  at  the  thought  of  her  displeas- 
ure, manoeuvring  to  possess  himself  of 
one — hiding  it,  wearing  it,  as  a  knight  of 
old  was  wont  to  wear  his  lady's  colors, 
until  he  came  back  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  having  won  his  golden  spurs,  to 
claim — his  own. 


Dallas  at  that  moment  was  finishing 
his  breakfast.  He  always  hked  a  hearty 
breakfast.  It  was  a  question  whether 
he  or  Matt  had  done  most  justice  to  the 
chickens,  and  waffles,  and  cream-gravy. 
As  for  Lizzy  and  Mrs.  Beck,  they  ate 
but  little,  and  with  that  little  Peggy  lit- 
erally mingled  her  tears.  Mr.  Beck,  last 
night,  had  given  them  vague  ideas  of  the 
vast  wildernesses  waiting  to  be  explored 
by  Dallas,  and  they  had  sat  up  until  near 
dawn  to  talk  of  it. 

"  Miss  Byrne  took  it  worse  than  my 
wife,"  said  Beck,  when  they  went  up  for 
Galbraith's  luggage.  "One  'ud  think 
your  road  was  beset  by  cannibals,  by  the 
way  she  watches  you.  Women  beats 
all.  If  you  stick  an  idee  in  their  heads 
as  bare  as  a  broom-stick,  they'll  have  it 
up  and  flourishin'  like  a  green  bay  tree 
in  no  time." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  them," 
said  Galbraith,  indifferently.  He  had  no 
time  to  speculate  on  women  or  their 
idiosyncrasies.  There  were  some  bits 
of  rock  which  he  wanted  to  take  with 
him  for  comparison,  and  he  had  not  yet 
chosen  them.  He  began  to  choose  and 
pack  them  now. 

Now  that  he  had  his  work  in  hand,  it 
was  curious  how  the  image  of  Honora, 
over  which  he  had  been  brooding  for 


136 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


days,  faded  far  into  the  background. 
A  beautiful  dream,  to  be  summoned  in 
lonely  hours,  perhaps  ;  but  now  the  spar 
must  be  packed.  There  were  no  hol- 
lows about  his  eyes.  Ten  minutes  after 
he  had  found  his  work  for  life  was  ready 
for  him  last  night,  he  had  lain  down  and 
slept  soundly.  It  made  Lizzy  angry  to 
know  that  he  was  sleeping  like  a  log  in 
the  next  room. 

"  Now,  that  is  the  difference  between 
men  and  women,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  it  is  only  for  a  year,  Lizzy," 
he  said,  wringing  her  hand  good-bye, 
when  Doctor  Pritchard  came  at  last,  and 
Beck  and  Washington  were  storing  away 
the  valise  in  the  buggy. 

"Only  a  year!  Oh,  Dallas!  But  a 
year  is  nothing  to  you.  You  will  inherit 
a  great  fortune — you  will  marry — " 

"  No  woman  would  marry  a  convict. 
There  is  no  need  to  remind  me  of  that," 
sternly. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  tell  her," 
eagerly. 

"  I've  no  time  to  be  thinking  of  mar- 
riage now,  Lizzy.  Good-bye — God  bless 
you !  I  don't  forget  all  you've  done  for 
me." 

"  Time's  up,  Galbraith  !"  shouted  the 
Doctor.  He  was  looking  down  with 
dismay  at  Mrs.  Beck's  store  of  luncheon 
and  jam  jars. 

Dallas  nodded,  packing  them  in. 
« Hush.  Humor  her.  We  can  throw 
it  out  easily  enough.  One  moment;" 
and  he  ran  back  to  leave  a  package  in 
his  room  for  Matt. 

In  that  moment  Doctor  Pritchard  saw 
Mr.  Galbraith  ride  up,  quickly,  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  and  he  drove  on  to 
speak  to  him.  He  fancied  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  curiously  distrait  and*  anx- 
ious. He  looked  beyond  the  Doctor, 
at  Dallas  when  he  came  out  on  the 
steps  again  and  they  all  gathered  about 
him. 

"  That  is  your  assistant,  Pritchard  ?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  my  young  friend.  I 
use  that  word  advisedly,"  with  a  half- 
defiant  tone.  "  I  take  him  on  the  re- 
sponsibility of  my  instinct,  sir.  His  his- 
tory is  nothing  to  me." 


Mr.  Galbraith  hesitated  :  "You  have 
heard  his  history  then  ?" 

"  From  himself.  Without  reserva- 
tion." 

There  was  a  strange  lightening  in  Mr. 
Galbraith's  face,  which  struck  even  the 
unobservant  Professor  as  odd.  He 
found,  too,  that  one  or  two  remarks 
which  he  made  were  unheard  by  the 
old  gentleman,  so  intently  was  he  re- 
garding the  group  on  the  porch,  and 
listening  to  an  occasional  word  from 
Dallas. 

"  The  lad,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  has  the 
gift  of  attaching  all  kinds  of  people  to 
him.  It  belonged  to — to  another  of  the 
Galbraiths."   . 

"  Yes ;  but  he  has  the  gift  of  at- 
taching himself  to  his  work,  which  is 
better.  I  have  been  pleased  to  see  how, 
since  his  proper  profession  opened  to 
him,  he  has  taken  hold  of  it — like  a  tree 
that  finds  itself  in  its  native  soil.  Friends 
nor  women  will  not  hold  this  young  fel- 
low back,  sir.  They  will  be  outside 
matters  to  him.  His  work  will  be  the 
air  he  breathes." 

"You  think  the  discipline  good  for 
him,  then  ?"  anxiously. 

"  It  is  not  good — it  is  necessary.  As 
air  to  breathe,"  crustily. 

Mr.  Galbraith  turned  his  quiet,  critical 
eyes  on  the  irritable  little  man  beside 
him,  as  though  sounding  his  nature  in 
reference  to  some  secret  thought  of  his 
own  :  then,  satisfied,  they  went  back  to 
the  tall  figure  on  the  porch  and  the  face 
of  the  younger  man.  There  was  an  odd 
likeness  of  meaning  between  them.  He 
wondered  if  there  were  any  virtue  in 
the  earth's  secrets  that  kept  the  souls 
of  men,  who  were  born  to  dig  them  out, 
clean  and  honest. 

"  It  is  better  the  boy  should  go,"  he 
said,  slowly,  as  Dallas,  having  bidden 
Matt  the  last  hearty  good-bye,  came  to- 
ward them,  and  for  the  first  time  saw  his 
grandfather.  Mr.  Galbraith  pressed  his 
horse  forward  a  step  and  half  held  out 
his  hand,  but  seeing  that  Dallas  stopped, 
he  bowed  without  speaking. 

"  Now,  tliat  fellow  does  not  mean  to 
be  uncivil,"  said  the  Doctor,  quickly. 
"  He  will  not  shake  your  hand  because 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


137 


you  don't  know  his  historj'.  There  is 
no  sham  about  him." 

"  I  understand."  Mr.  Galbraith  spoke 
nervously,  with  an  unusual  repressed  ex- 
citement in  his  thin  face.  "But  I  should 
like  to  have  taken  the  boy  by  the  hand. 
I  hope  you  will  be  kind  to  him,  Pritch- 
ard  ?" 

"  No  fear.  Well,  good-bye.  That  is 
a  new  specimen  of  acacia  in  your  bou- 
quet. Oh,  many  thanks  !  Good-bye. 
Come,  Galbraith." 

As  Dallas  sprang  into  the  buggy  and 
they  drove  away,  the  spare  military 
figure  on  horseback  was  the  last  that  he 
saw.  It  seemed  to  typify  the  hfe  and 
kindred  on  which  he  had  turned  his 
back.  We  see  ourselves  and  our  neigh- 
bors as  we  are  but  two  or  three  times  in 
life,  and  then  with  electric,  irrevocable 
insight.  This  old  graybeard,  with  his 
delicate  fingers  and  sad,  sensitive  eyes, 
tliat  would  look  on  the  wealth  and  edu- 
cation for  which  Dallas  schemed  with 
long-used  indifference,  was  a  something 
which  the  young  man  never  could  be- 
come. He  sat  silent  beside  Dr.  Pritch- 
ard  until  they  had  driven  a  mile  or  two, 
and  then,  stooping,  began  to  finger  the 
package  of  tools  without  which  the  Pro- 
fessor never  traveled. 

"  You  like  your  trade,  Galbraith  ?  Not 
sorry  to  give  civilization  the  good-bye  for 
a  while,  eh  ?" 

"  I  suppose  a  man  cannot  serve  two 
masters  ?" 

«  Not  such  a  man  as  you." 

«  Then  I  like  my  trade." 

He  took  up  the  flowers  which  the 
Doctor  had  let  fall.  He  was  sure  that 
Honora  had  cut  them  for  her  uncle,  and 
touched  them  with  a  blush  like  a  boy,  as 
though  their  leaves  had  been  her  cheeks 
and  hair.  She  might  belong  to  the  same 
world  as  her  uncle,  but,  if  he  came  back, 
she  would  come  into  his,  he  thought, 
with  quiet  assurance.  After  a  while  he 
pulled  one  or  two  of  the  blossoms  to 
pieces  to  find  out  to  what  class  and 
order  they  belonged,  and  when  they  all 
drooped  in  the  heat,  he  threw  them 
away.  Dallas  never  had  a  keepsake  in 
his  hfe. 

Crossing  a  ridge  of  the  lower  hills, 


Doctor  Pritchard   drew  up  his    horse 
"  There    is    the     Galbraith    homestead. 
Take  your  last  look  at  it.     You  are  a 
branch  of  that  stock,  I  believe  ?" 

"  More  of  kin  than  of  kind,"  said 
Dallas,  under  his  breath. 

But  the  Doctor  caught  the  words : 
"  Oh,  of  course.  But  a  man's  no  less  a 
man  on  account  of  difference  of  rank. 
That  is  a  noble  old  house.  It  sits  upon 
the  mountain  hke  a  crown."  He  waited 
to  allow  the  horse  to  breathe,  for  the 
pull  up  the  hill  had  been  hard. 

Now,  the  domestic  instinct  was  strong 
in  Dallas,  however  wanting  in  sentiment- 
alism  women  would  have  thought  him. 
He  had  given  to  even  his  prison  cell  a 
home  look.  He  could  not  forget  that 
the  solemn  mountain-landscapes  and  the 
house  yonder  in  their  midst  were  his 
home — had  been  the  birth-place  of  his 
ancestors  for  generations.  He  alone 
was  cast  out — a  vagabond  upon  the 
earth.  Doctor  Pritchard  broke  the  si- 
lence with  words  that  oddly  jarred  upon 
him.  He  put  his  hand  on  Dallas'  knee, 
and  said,  earnestly ; 

"  I  heard  you  promise  to  come  back 
here  in  a  year,  Galbraith  ;  and  I  meant, 
as  your  friend,  when  we  were  alone,  to 
protest  against  it.  What  can  you  have 
in  common  with  these  people  ?  Why 
would  you  give  up  your  work  when  it 
was  just  begun  V 

"  There  is  something  in  common  be- 
tween us,"  said  Dallas,  but  vaguely,  for 
a  moving  object  on  the  road  before  them 
had  caught  his  eye:  a  low  phaeton,  with 
two  figures  in  it.  At  the  sight  of  one 
of  them,  his  heart  stood  still.  "  There 
are  reasons  why  I  should  come  back — 
there  are  reasons,"  he  repeated,  slowly, 
looking  at  it. 

"I  do  not  ask  your  confidence,' of 
course,"  testily  :  "  I  only  give  you  prac- 
tical, common-sense  counsel.  You  have 
told  me  your  story  :  you  say  there  is  no 
way  for  you  to  prove  your  innocence, 
and  I  tell  you  your  only  chance  is  to 
devote  yourself  to-day  to  your  profes- 
sion, and  to  rid  yourself  of  every  vestige 
of  your  past  life — make  yourself  new 
aims  and  a  new  world.  There  is  no 
hope   for  you   there,"  motioning  to  the 


138 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH, 


mountains  and  homestead.  "There  is 
not  one  man  or  woman  there  who  would 
believe  in  yow  as  I  have  done,  with  the 
story  clinging  to  you." 

Dallas  did  not  answer.  He  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  the  delicate  woman 
leaning  back  in  the  phaeton  which  rap- 
idly approached  them. 

"  No  !"  pursued  the  Doctor,  energeti- 
cally, motioning  toward  the  great  west- 
ern valley  which  opened  before  them. 
"There  lies  your  true  path.  I  don't 
want  to  see  the  man  in  you  spoiled  by 
the  influence  of  people  whom  you  have 
left  here.  Take  your  work  and  go  out 
with  it.  Let  there  be  no  looking  back 
to  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt." 

"It  is  not  my  work  that  keeps  me 
from  them,"  cried  Dallas,  the  fair,  laugh- 
ing face  of  his  mother  coming  nearer  and 
nearer.  "  It  is  the  stain  that  is  on  me ; 
and  it  was  no  fault  of  mine." 

«  But  it  will  shut  you  out  from  them 
for  ever,"  coolly.  "What  if  you  had 
gone  to  any  of  them,  as  you  did  to  me, 
and  said  '  I  am  a  convict '  ?" 

Dallas  did  not  speak,  but  he  took  off" 
his  cap,  and,  leaning  forward,  looked  into 
the  woman's  face  that  was  now  close 
upon  them.  The  Doctor  noticed  that 
he  drew  his  breath  heavily :  his  face  be- 
came the  poor  vehicle  of  some  great 
emotion.  What  could  Mrs.  Duffield 
know  of  the  man  ? 

Colonel  Pervis,  who  drove  her,  pulled 
up  his  horses  with  a  jerk :  "  Off",  Doc- 
tor? 'Westward  the  star  of  science 
takes  its  way,'  eh  ?"  with  a  furtive,  in- 
quisitive glance  at  the  workman  beside 
him. 

Mrs.  Dufiield  also  saw  Dallas,  but 
without  looking  at  him.  It  was  a  noble, 
singular  head,  she  thought ;  and  the 
rolhng  gray  collar  and  bare  throat  were 
wonderfully  artistic.  She  stretched  out 
her  pretty  little  hand  to  the  Doctor. 
"  We  will  miss  you  so  much  !"  she  said, 
gently.  "  But  you  will  find  your  way 
back  to  us  some  day,  I  am  sure." 

"  Will  I  find  you  here,  if  I  do  ?" 

"Yes.  I  am  at  home  now.  This 
life  suits  me."  Her  hand  lay  on  the  red 
cushion,  close  to  Dallas.  For  years  he 
never  had  slept  without  holding  it  close 


to  his  breast.  The  brown  hair — there 
was  a  httle  gray  in  it  now — how  he  used 
to  tug  at  it  and  tangle  it  while  she  sewed 
at  the  slop-shop  work !  How  patient 
she  was,  laughing  when  he  brought  the 
tears  to  her  eyes !  He  could  see  a 
faint  scar  across  her  forehead  :  it  was 
there  that  Duffield  struck  her  that  night 
when  she  held  him  in  her  lap  to  keep 
off"  the  savage  blows.  That  night  he 
went  to  the  coal-pits.  He  knew  that  the 
only  chance  for  life  for  her  was  to  be  rid 
of  him. 

If  he  could  but  touch  her  !  She  was 
not  a  dainty  lady  to  him  :  she  was  only — 
mother — mother.  His  hand,  holding  his 
cap,  was  near  to  hers.  The  strong, 
brawny  man  grew  weak  and  blind.  He 
dared  not  touch  it. 

The  stain  was  between  them. 

She  looked  beyond  him,  as  though  he 
had  been  vacant  air,  to  his  companion. 

The  Doctor's  kind  heart  could  not 
bear  that  any  one  should  be  neglected. 
"  My  young  friend  goes  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  You  must  wish  him  God-speed 
He  is  one  of  your  own  people." 

Colonel  Pervis  mumbled  some  com- 
monplace, and  Mrs.  Duffield  promptly 
held  out  her  ever-ready  hand.  She 
looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  their  eyes 
met.  A  strange,  confused  trouble  came 
into  her  face ;  it  grew  pale :  she  drew 
back  the  outstretched  hand. 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  that  I  am  a  convict  ?" 
said  Dallas,  in  a  quiet  whisper,  turning 
to  the  Doctor.  But  the  boy's  look  made 
Pritchard  think  that  he  had  suddenly 
gone  mad. 

"  Tut !  tut !  I  will  drive  on,  Colonel 
Pervis.  Good-day,  Mrs.  Duffield.  You 
are  insane  on  this  matter,  Galbraith." 

"  Stay  !"  Dallas  laid  his  hand  on  the 
Doctor's  wrist  and  brought  the  horse  to 
a  sudden  halt.  He  looked  at  the  phaeton 
which  was  driving  rapidly  away.  "  I  may 
never  come  back,"  he  said,  \yith  a  loud 
uncadenced  laugh,  "  and  she — she  is — " 

"  What  is  she,  Galbraith  ?" 

"This  life  suited  her."  Should  he 
bring  his  disgrace  on  her  ? 

"  She  was  a  friend  of  mine  once,"  he 
said,  loosing  his  hold  on  the  reins. 

"  You  had  better  sink  all  friendships. 


DA  r-DREAMING. 


139 


There  lies  your  work.  I  warn  you," 
pointing  forward. 

Mrs.  Duffield  was  silent  and  pale  so 
long  as  to  alarm  her  companion.  "  Do 
you  know  that  young  man,  Colonel  Per- 
vis  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  No.  But  we  can  easily  hail  the 
Doctor  again,"  with  uneasy  solicitude, 
for  she  was  a  woman  whom  every  man 
was  anxious  to  serve. 

«  No." 

"  He  reminded  you  of  some  one  ?" 
anxiously. 


She  bowed,  her  face  turned  from  him. 

"  A  friend,  perhaps  ?" 

"  A  friend  who  is  dead." 

Colonel  Pervis  was  silent.  As  they 
turned  toward  the  Galbraith  homestead, 
she  looked  hurriedly  back,  and  in  the 
rapidly  widening  distance  she  saw  the 
two  adventurers  going  down  into  the 
valley  of  the  west,  whose  rising  mists 
enveloped  them,  making  them  dim  and 
shadowy  to  her  sight  as  the  image  of 
the  dead  boy  who  would  come  no  more, 
nor  send  her  tidings. 


PART    VII. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

APRIL. 
The  conventional  April — bright- 
eyed  and  tearful,  "with  flesh-like  colum- 
bine bedight,  beneath  whose  feet  the 
curied  streams  soft  chidings  kept," — was 
shut  up  between  the  leathern  backs  of 
some  old  English  books  on  Mr.  Gal- 
braith's  favorite  shelf  of  the  Hbrary. 

This  was  her  American  sister.  Mud 
and  dyspepsia,  lagging  brains  and  heavy 
feet  announce  her  coming  in  lieu  of  haw- 
thorn blooms. 

The  winter  months,  Honora  thought, 
looking  out  of  the  Ubrary  window,  had 
been  tedious  enough,  but  spring  had 
thawed  out  and  dragged  to  light  all  the 
uncomely  background  of  the  heavens 
above  and  the  earth  beneath.  The  world 
had  quarreled  with  both  winter  and  sum- 
mer, and  would  be  reconciled  to  neither. 
The  insolent  light  bared  all  the  dirty 
patches  of  snow  on  the  mountain-sides  ; 
the  sullen  creeks  bogged  with  the  win- 
ter's ice  ;  the  gaping  clayey  land-slides  ; 
the  trees  stood  like  black  and  pulpy 
sponges,  motionless  in  the  sickly  cold 
wind.  A  veil  of  vapory  green  had  fallen 
pityingly  on  the  great  slope  before  her, 
but  beneath  it,  she  knew,  was  mire. 

Her  uncle  came  to  the  window  out- 


side, his  long  boots  covered  with  mud, 
from  a  tramp  through  the  hills  :  he  held 
up  a  bunch  of  red  maple  buds  and  the 
pale  emerald  cups  of  the  water-arum  for 
her  to  see,  and  then  looked  up  at  the 
sun  glinting  through  the  saffron  waves 
of  smoke  which  the  wind  drove  about 
overhead.  Honora  tapped  impatiently 
for  him  to  come  in.  She  wondered  that 
he  could  always  be  busied  with  such 
trifles.  Did  nobody  but  herself  see  how 
awful  a  thing  it  was  to  be  alive  ?  She 
had  been  dabbling  in  Carlyle  lately. 

Beside  this,  the  winter  months  had 
left  some  vehement,  hard  lines  on  Miss 
Dundas'  face.  Her  secret  had  proved 
heavy  and  galling  ;  and  since  the  rough 
fellow,  in  his  laborer's  dress,  had  turned 
his  back  on  her  that  night  and  left  her 
to  keep  his  place,  she  had  been  con- 
scious of  a  gaping  vacuity  in  her  life  un- 
felt  before.  If  she  had  been  a  man,  she 
would  have  had  politics  or  a  trade  or 
profession — some  interest  below  and 
broader  than  her  own  petty  cares — to  sink 
them  in.  As  it  was,  she  sewed.  She 
did  not  find  in  the  needle  that  infallible 
medicine  for  a  woman's  mind  diseased 
which  men  consider  it.  Cosmos  had 
proved  a  failure.  On  the  third  day  of 
trial,  Mr.  Galbraith  found  her  asleep  over 
the    first    chapter    before    noon.     Then 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


141 


Hcnora  took  to  religion.  She  went  to 
the  church  to  pray  every  morning ; 
began  to  meddle  with  the  Irish  house- 
maids, and  to  shake  their  faith  in  the 
I'irgin  ;  tried  to  bring  Lizzy,  who  was  a 
staunch  Baptist,  to  a  confusion  of  spirit 
about  the  truth  of  Episcopal  succession. 
It  was  a  matter  of  deadly  earnest  to  her  ; 
for  it  was  a  real  void  in  her  own  life  she 
was  trying  to  fill  with  her  prayers  and 
proselvtings  and  thirty-nine  articles. 
Perhaps  she  found  most  comfort  in  her 
secret  nightly  supplications  for  Dallas. 
For  was  he  not  a  poor  w^anderer  ? 
Should  no  man  care  for  his  soul  ?  In 
church  she  used  to  put  his  name  into 
the  prayer  for  the  President.  She  was 
very  sincere,  thinking  it  was  only  his 
salvation  she  cared  for. 

Her  uncle  silently  noted  it  all,  and 
felt  a  deep,  tender  pity  for  her.  There 
was  no  career  open  for  women  but  that 
of  wife  and  mother  ;  and  until  that  came 
to  them,  he  thought  that  even  the  least 
morbid  among  them  suffered  from  un- 
used power  and  mental  hunger — sat 
alone  and  gnawed  their  own  flesh,  as  the 
woman  in  that  horrible  tale  of  the  Flem- 
ish prison.  But  he  would  have  been 
ready  to  strike  any  one  who  would  pro- 
pose that  Honora  should  find  work  and 
happiness  outside  of  this  tardy  husband. 
He  had  a  most  delicate  appreciation  of 
woman's  sphere,  and  drew  the  limits 
narrowly. 

Honora  saw  liim  a  few  moments  later 
come  into  the  adjoining  room  in  his 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and  put  the 
buds  and  calla  in  a  vase  upon  his  wife's 
table.  She  took  them  up  and  sniffed 
at  them.  "Very  pretty,  James,  but 
scentless." 

"  Now,  to  me  they  have  a  delicate 
perfume." 

"  Your  senses  are  keener  than  mine. 
I  wish  I  could  find  the  comfort  in  such 
things  that  you  do." 

Mr.  Galbraith  did  not  reply. 

"  But  I  never  could.  A  frog  could  not 
find  honey  even  in  a  field  of  clover,"  for- 
cing a  laugh.  "  So — "  taking  up  her  pen 
agj.in  ;  but  she  dipped  it  in  the  ink  two  or 
three  times  before  beginning  her  writing, 
looking  thoughtfully  at  the  poor  buds. 


"  Is  it  the  old  work,  Hannah  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  description  of  the  oil- 
wells  and  site  for  the  town.  That  which 
young  Dour  wrote  from  hearsay  was  too 
flattering.  I  want  to  deceive  nobody. 
I  want  no  capital  put  into  the  concern 
on  false  expectations." 

"  Capitalists  have  not  come  forward 
very  promptly,  have  they  ?" 

"  No.  But  they'll  come.  Dour  has 
brought  me  notices  of  the  undertaking, 
clipped  from  the  New  York  papers. 
Very  favorable.  I  suspected  him  of 
writing  them  ;  but  he  protested  that  the 
thing  is  talked  of  Avidely.  I'll  have  no 
puffing,"  driving  her  pen  energetically 
across  the  broad  sheet,  while  Mr.  Gal- 
braith settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair, 
drawing  his  gown  over  his  knees,  fold- 
ing his  thin  hands  and  falling  into  his 
usual  dreamy  scrutiny  of  the  fire. 

She  looked  up  presently :  '•  Dour 
came  last  night,  James." 

"  I  saw  him.  It  is  a  long  journey. 
What  is  his  object  ?" 

"  Honora,  I  fancy,"  with  an  abrupt 
laugh.  "  Ostensibly,  to  offer  his  services 
in  the  laying  out  of  the  town.  I  may 
make  use  of  him  :  he's  shrewd  and  gov- 
ernable. It's  hard  to  find  men  who  are 
governable,"  without  observing  the  quiz- 
zical glance  which  her  husband  shot  at 
her.  "  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
address  Honora,  I  suspect.  Not  that 
he  cares  a  straw  for  you,  child,"  raising 
her  voice  as  Miss  Dundas  came  in. 
"  But  he  thinks  it  an  easy  way  to  turn  a 
penny.  Send  him  to  me:  I'll  put  him 
to  the  right-about  properly !"  turning 
her  paper,  with  a  snort  of  defiance.  "  If 
I'm  wrong,  though,  and  he  marries  the 
little  Rattlin  girl,  I'll  make  his  fortune 
for  him." 

"  I  would  think,  my  dear,  you  would 
find  quite  enough  occupation  in  your 
derricks  and  town  without  playing  Provi- 
dence to  all  the  lovers  you  stumble  over." 
Madam  Galbraith  vouchsafed  no 
direct  reply.  Presently,  stopping  to 
consult  a  map,  she  put  her  pen  behind 
her  ear,  and  said  that  "  Dour  was  a  fair- 
enough  specimen  of  a  mediocre  New 
Englander,  clear-sighted  and  shrewd,  if 
he  could  rid  his  brain  of  the  smattering 


142 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


of  Transcendentalism  which  it  never  was 
made  to  comprehend.  That's  the  trouble 
among  any  people  when  a  great  thinker 
Hke  Emerson  goes  from  among  them 
into  his  own  path  on  the  mountains. 
All  commonplace  men  feel  called  upon 
to  follow  him,  and  there  they  go  scram- 
bling about  in  the  darkness  like  silly 
sheep." 

"  I  think,"  said  Honora,  anxiously, 
after  a  pause,  « it  is  only  fair  to  set  good 
as  well  as  evil  before  Mr.  Dour.  I  will 
bring  Gerty  up  on  a  visit." 

"Just  as  you  please,  child,"  indiffer- 
ently. "  Don't  talk  to  me.  I  have  these 
lots  all  confused.  Give  me  the  pins, 
quick.      I  can  do  nothing  without  pins." 

Honora  came  closer,  giving  her,  from 
a  hard,  square  cushion,  red  and  blue- 
headed  pins,  which  the  old  lady  stuck 
viciously  into  a  square,  parti-colored 
map,  stopping  to  ponder  over  each  as  it 
went  in. 

Everything  in  the  room  was  growing 
hard  and  square,  Honora  thought,  look- 
ing drearily  around,  under  the  spell  of 
Madam  Galbraith's  new  hobby.  It  was 
her  especial  sanctum,  and  used  to  be 
warm,  genial,  disorderly — the  very  heart 
and  core  of  the  house.  It  had  fallen 
under  line-and-plummet  rule  now — was 
as  blank  as  the  maps  of  her  proposed 
town  on  the  wall,  or  as  the  ground '  on 
the  river  flats  on  which  it  was  to  be 
built.  It  seemed  to  be  the  old  lady's 
fancy  that  her  office  should  wear  a  busi- 
ness-like aspect,  severe  enough  to  awe 
the  largest  capitalist,  if  that  tardy  man 
ever  appeared.  The  worn,  old  Turkey 
carpet,  on  which  Tom  Galbraith  had 
played  when  he  was  a  child,  had  been 
replaced  by  hempen  mats  ;  piano,  sew- 
ing, portraits  and  flower-pots  had  been 
swept  away  as  useless  lumber ;  the 
square,  white  ceiling  stared  down  at  the 
square,  earth-colored  floor,  with  only  a 
table,  squarer  than  either,  to  break  the 
blank  between  ;  and  at  the  table  sat  the 
stout,  brawny  old  woman,  bending  over 
her  maps,  as  though  it  were  the  one 
chance  between  her  and  death. 

Her  mass  of  silvery  hair,  which  used 
to  be  framed  about  her  face  with  a  curi- 
ous artistic  effect,  was  skewered  back  in 


a  tight  knot,  and  the  face  itself  reflected 
in  its  unyielding  mould  the  figures  over 
which  she  had  been  brooding  for  months. 
One  could  hardly  believe  that  a  baby's 
fingers  had  ever  touched  that  hard 
hawk's  beak  ;  for  in  the  fierce  energy 
of  even  her  repose  there  was  something 
of  the  traits  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

She  pulled  out  and  put  in  the  pins 
slowly,  rubbing  her  knobbed  forehead, 
bewildered :  "  District  A,  that  is  the 
rolling-mill ;  C,  dwellings  ;  D  ? — there  is 
assuredly  a  mistake  about  D — " 

"Can  I  assist  you,  Hannah?"  Mr. 
Galbraith  rose  reluctantly,  hesitating  be- 
fore coming  closer. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  you  have  offered 
to  do  it,  James,"  with  grave  reproach. 
"  The  whole  country-side  has  taken  part 
in  my  great  work,  while  you  have  been 
dreaming,  as  usual,  over  your  Dante  and 
Jean  Paul." 

"  But  I  know  so  little  of  oil,"  sitting 
down  and  picking  up  the  map  as  daintily 
as  though  it  were  greasy. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  James,  if  you  con- 
found my  undertaking  with  a  vulgar  oil 
speculation.  To  be  sure,  I  saw  no  rea- 
son why  the  Dour  lands  should  not  yield 
oil  as  well  as  any  in  the  country.  So 
the  wells  were  sunk  :  there  they  are- 
red  pins.  I've  no  doubt  they'll  yield 
three  hundred  barrels  a  day.  I  do  not 
hold  them  as  a  means  of  selfish  aggran- 
dizement. We  have  enough.  So  will 
Honora  have.  The  town  is  laid  out  as 
you  know :  the  cotton  and  rolling-mills 
are  nearly  built.  The  oil-wells  will  be 
a  sort  of  support — backbone  to  the  whole. 
I  see  no  reason  why  there  should  not  be 
a  town  on  the  Dour  lands — I  mean,  why 
Western  Virginia  should  not  be  de- 
veloped." 

"  No — certainly  not,"  abstractedly,  ex- 
amining the  maps,  while  Honora  watched 
his  face  anxiously. 

"I  am  glad,"  pursued  Madam  Gal- 
braith, with  complacency,  "that  you 
allow  me  at  last  to  explain  my  scheme 
to  you.  I'm  no  reformer,  James,  but  Fd 
like,  before  I  die,  to  look  at  a  commu- 
nity of  people  who  owed  their  advance 
in  well-being  entirely  to  me.  To  me. 
I'd  hke    to   leave  such  a  community  on 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


143 


the  Dour  lands.  You  understand  ?  I 
bring  here  industrious  emigrants,  furnish 
them  with  comfortable  dwellings  and  re- 
munerative work :  they  repay  me  the 
money  advanced  as  they  earn  it.  I  have 
drawn  into  the  scheme  as  many  of  the 
neighboring  farmers  as  I  could :  the 
hands  in  the  house  and  farm  have  put 
all  of  their  savings  into  it." 

"  But  the  large  capitalists  ?" 

"  Well,  to  be  honest,  James,  I  have 
made  use  of  no  means  to  bring  them  in. 
I  don't  want  them.  Then  we  should 
have  a  board  of  directors,  with  their 
delay  and  fal-lal.  Why,  /  should  not 
even  have  a  vote.  As  it  is,  the  men  I 
have  employed  are  controllable.  Quite 
controllable." 

"  A  is  the  rolling-mill  ?  Is  it  stocked  ?" 

"Yes.  I  drew  on  the  Western  lands 
for  that." 

"  You  have  not  sold  the  Western  lands, 
Hannah  ?" 

'•  Certainly,"  sharply.  "  You  signed 
the  deeds  in  March." 

"  You  bring  so  many  papers  to  me  to 
sign,"  mildly. 

"  I  sold  them  at  a  sacrifice,  I  confess. 
But  I  required  the  ready  money.  I 
found  the  undertaking  more  costly  than 
I  expected.  Stocks  and  mortgages  were 
readily  transferred,  but  with  land  and 
cattle,  of  course,  I  parted  this  season  at 
a  disadvantage." 

Mr.  Galbraith's  cheeks  flushed  under 
the  gray  whiskers.  He  was  silent  for  a 
moment :  "  Do  I  understand  you  that 
you  have  invested  all  your  property  in 
this  scheme  ?" 

"  Excepting  the  Stone-post  Farm  and 
homestead.  Why,  it  is  but  throwing 
out  minnows  to  bring  in  whales.  It  will 
bear  an  interest  of  a  hundred  per  cent, 
though  I  did  not  think  of  the  profit. 
You  appear  surprised,  Mr.  Galbraith  ?" 

He  delayed  his  answer  for  an  instant. 

"  I  did  not  know  how  extensive  your 
plans  were,  Hannah,"  quietly.  "Here 
is  Mr.  Dour.  This  map  will  be  more 
intelligible  to  him  than  to  me,  perhaps," 
ceding  his  place  at  the  table  to  the 
young  man,  who  returned  his  old-fash- 
ioned bow  but  slightly.  A  henpecked 
scholar  was  a  creature  with  which  Paul 


Dour  had  no  sympathy.  Finding  that 
he  could  not  catch  Honora's  eye,  he 
bent  zealously  over  the  maps.  He  had 
come  back  intending  first  to  win  Madam 
Galbraith's  favor :  when  the  fairy  god- 
mother was  secured,  he  could  bring  him- 
self to  marry  the  stupid  Cinderella. 

"  The  plat  marked  D  is  incorrect,  Mr. 
Dour." 

"  We  will  amend  that,  madam — we 
will  amend  that,"  with  oily  fluency.  "But 
about  the  proposals  that  I  brought  with 
me.  as  we  are  upon  the  subject.  You 
positively  reject  New  England  colonists  ? 
That  appears  to  me  a  singular  prejudice. 
They  are  the  very  leaven  of  any  settle- 
ment. These  men,  too,  will  pay  their 
own  way — " 

"  Precisely.  /'</ rather  pay  their  way. 
Debt's  the  surest  yoke  on  any  man's 
neck.  I'll  have  none  of  your  headstrong 
radicals.  Sir,  if  you  please,  I'll  leaven 
my  colony  in  my  own  fashion." 

Dour  forced  a  complaisant  smile. 

"  A  German  population,  such  as  that 
which  already  forms  the  nucleus  of  the 
settlement,  is  what  I  would  prefer.  But 
moral — moral.  I'll  have  neither  man 
nor  woman  who  cannot  show  a  fair  re- 
cord. We'll  have  no  room  for  prisons 
or  courts,  so  we'll  start  vvith  an  honest 
brotherhood.  I  have  not  left  this  matter 
to  Mr.  Rattlin's  oversight  I've  made  a 
point  of  knowing  the  antecedents  of 
every  settler  myself,  and  if  he  cannot 
show  a  clean  record,  as  I  said,  I  make 
short  work  with  him." 

"  Certainly.  Indubitably  you  are 
right"  His  truckling  assent  flowed  in 
ready  chorus  to  every  dogmatic  sentence. 

Honora,  meanwhile,  stood  looking 
down  at  them  with  an  appalled,  helpless 
dismay.  While  she  had  been  brooding 
all  winter  over  her  secret,  deaf  and  blind 
to  all  that  went  on  about  her,  the  royal 
robes  in  which  Dallas  was  to  be  clothed 
on  his  return  were  being  changed  into 
flimsy  rags.  She  had  an  unutterable 
contempt  for  Madam  Galbraith's  busi- 
ness knowledge  ;  and  it  was  Dallas'  in- 
heritance with  which  she  was  gambling, 
in  order  to  rule  over  a  herd  of  Dutch 
laborers.  It  was  Dallas'  rights  against 
which   the   foolish  old  woman   and   this 


144 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


truckling,  time-serving  Dour  were  con- 
spiring. 

She  had  a  knightly,  chivalric  sense  of 
protection  for  the  hardly-used  fellow,  ob- 
stinate and  unmalleable  though  he  had 
been  in  her  hands.  In  her  own  cham- 
ber, with  maidenly  blushes  and  tears, 
she  prayed  night  after  night  that  he 
might  be  brought  _into  the  fold  of  the 
church  ;  and  now  she  was  ready  to  fight 
as  vehemently  for  his  acres  and  stocks. 

But  her  secret  ?  Her  hps  were 
closed. 

Mr.  Galbraith  had  gone  back  into  the 
library  and  seated  himself  at  the  win- 
dow, beside  the  chess-board,  on  which 
he  had  left  an  unsolved  problem.  He 
spent  many  silent,  happy  hours  every 
day  working  out  variations  of  the  same 
old  gambits :  now,  however,  he  was 
looking  absently  over  the  board  into  the 
bare  woods  outside.  When  he  heard  Ho- 
nora's  hasty  step  following  him,  he  began 
hurriedly  to  move  his  pawns. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
standing  behind  him,  motioning  him 
to  listen  to  the  murmur  of  voices 
inside.  "  Do  you  know  what  that 
means,  sir — all  that  mad  scheming  and 
flattery  ?     It  means  ruin — beggary." 

"  No,  no,  child,"  promptly,  as  though 
he  had  expected  her  attack,  but  without 
looking  at  her.  "  Madam  Galbraith 
has  great  skill  in  affairs — great  skill. 
You  should  have  confidence  in  her." 

«  I  ?  What  is  it  to  me  ?  I  am  not 
thinking  of  myself.  You  have  no  confi- 
dence in  her  business  judgment.  You 
have  no  faith  in  this  new  scheme,  sir — 
none." 

Mr.  Galbraith  looked  up  at  her : 
"  Honora  !" 

"  No,  you  have  none,"  steadily  ;  "  and 
yet  you  suffer  her  to  undermine  the 
ground  under  our  feet,  until  at  a  touch 
we  will  all  sink  into  ruin — we  and  these 
poor  wretches  at  the  wells,  and — and — 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  tell  you  what  I  know  !" 

Mr.  Galbraith  averted  his  eyes  from 
her  face,  moving  a  red'  knight  slowly  to 
and  fro. 

"  I  am  in  a  sore  strait,  uncle,"  in  a 
calmer  tone.  "  I  must  stand  and  see  a 
great  wrong  done,  and  I  dare  not  speak 


the  word  that  would  stop  it.  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  slight  my  warning.  I  am  not 
a  child." 

"  No ;  you  are  a  child  no  longer, 
Nora." 

Some  graver  thought  was  in  his  mind 
than  the  ruin  she  prophesied.  She  drew 
back  as  though  she  understood  it.  They 
both  were  silent. 

"You  must  remember,"  he  said,  at 
last,  looking  at  her  with  a  shrewd  smile, 
"  that  you  base  your  fears  upon  your 
own  contempt  of  my  wife's  skill  in  busi- 
ness. I  do  not  know  how  that  may  be. 
You  women  are  always  the  harshest  judges 
of  one  who  undertakes  a  man's  work, 
cry  out  for  a  career  as  you  will.  Eh, 
Nonny  ?  But  I  have  not  been  so  blind 
and  deaf  to  this  scheme  as  you  suppose, 
though  I  had  no  idea  that  all  of  her 
property  was  involved  in  it.  No  ;  I  did 
not  comprehend  its  extent  until  to-day." 
He  paused  abruptly. 

"You  comprehend  it  now?"  eagerly, 
"  and  you  mean  to  interfere  ?" 

"  No ;   I  wiU  not  interfere,  Honora." 

"  Not  if  you  believed  as  I  do,  that  it 
would  end  in  beggary  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  not  even  then." 

Miss  Dundas  bent  on  the  slow,  gentle 
eyes  a  look  of  amazed  pity. 

"  If—"  she  hesitated — "  if  there  were 
a  natural  heir  to  whom  the  property 
would  revert  ?     In  that  case — " 

"  In  no  case  will  I  lift  my  finger  to 
thwart  my  wife,"  replacing  the  chessmen 
with  the  quiet,  indolent  motion  habitual 
to  him  ;  and  then  turning  to  her :  "  The 
property  is  hers,  Honora.  I  was  a  poor 
young  fellow  when  I  met  and  loved  Han- 
nah Dour.  I  had  but  a  small  annuity — 
enough  to  feed  and  clothe  me — to  buy  a 
book  or  print  now  and  then.  I  have  the 
same  now — no  more.  When  I  asked 
her  to  be  my  wife,  it  was  with  the  con- 
dition that  I  should  gain  nothing  through 
the  marriage  other  than  her  great  love. 
The  Dour  estate — its  income  or  its 
privileges — was  to  be  no  more  to  me 
than  to  the  merest  stranger  crossing  its 
boundary.  Our  marriage  has,  therefore, 
been  a  very  true  one.  But  if  I  had  not 
enforced  that  condition,  I  should  have 
been  a  pensioner  upon  her  bounty ;"  and 


DALLAS    GAI^BRAITH. 


145 


the  thin,  high-bred  features  colored 
painfully. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Honora,  gently. 

He  opened  the  box  and  began  to  care- 
fully set  the  quaint  old  figures  in  their 
velvet  case. 

"You  did  not  solve  your  problem, 
uncle  ?"  stooping  to  help  him. 

"  No  ;  my  head  aches.  This  south- 
erly wind,  I  suppose."  He  took  hold 
of  her  busy  fingers  with  a  half-quizzical, 
half-sad  smile.  "  Money  weighs  heavily 
in  hands  as  young  as  these,  Nora.  You 
think  life  ought  to  be  like  an  English 
novel,  in  which  virtue  is  always  rewarded 
in  the  end  by  a  shower  of  gold  ?  When 
one  is  an  old  graybeard  like  me,  one 
knows  that  it  is  only  the  surface-crops 
in  life  which  wealth  can  buy.  The  real 
treasures  lie  far  below."  He  closed  the 
box  and  pushed  it  from  him.  "  Now,  as 
to  that  imaginary  heir  of  the  Dours" — 
falling  into  his  favorite,  speculative  tone 
— "if  there  were  such  an  one,  there  are 
many  better  gifts  in  God's  hand  for  a 
young  man  than  large  property.  Dis- 
cipline, for  instance,  or  hard  fortune  to 
wrestle  with,  until  every  thew  and  sinew 
is  strengthened,  and — but  what  is  the  use 
of  defining  the  good  and  ill  of  the  world 
for  young  people  ?  It  is  a  lesson  which 
every  man  has  to  learn  afresh  in  the  bit- 
terness of  his  soul." 

«  Discipline  ?"  Miss  Dundas  thought 
the  heir  of  the  Dours  had  secured  his 
share  of  it.  When  she  would  have  spo- 
ken Mr.  Galbraith  avoided  her  eye. 

"  Tut !  tut !  Where  have  I  mislaid 
my  book  ?  You  did  not  see  it,  my  dear  V 
putting  on  his  spectacles  and  peering 
about  on  taWes  and  book-shelves. 

"  Ronsard,  uncle  ?     It  is  here." 

"  Ah,  true.  Thank  you.  It  is  a  book 
you  must  never  read,  Nora.  As  false 
a  guide  in  literature  as  in  love."  He 
composed  himself,  however,  in  his  chair, 
put  his  slippered  feet  to  the  fire  and 
opened  the  squat,  black  volume,  with  an 
air  of  tranquil  enjoyment.  Miss  Dundas, 
with  an  impatient  glance  at  him,  wan- 
dered uneasily  back  into  the  other  room. 
The  progressive  party  there  had  received 
a  reinforcement.  Mr.  Rattlin  was  pa- 
cing to  and  fro,  his  hands  clasped  under 
10 


the  tails  of  his  thin  black  coat,  a  satis- 
fied smile  on  his  face.  Beck,  from  the 
Indian  Queen,  sat  a  little  apart  from  the 
table,  in  a  suit  of  Sunday  black  clothes 
and  a  wide  expanse  of  shirt  front,  which 
altogether  appeared  to  have  unmanned 
him.  He  sat  bolt  upright,  swinging  his 
hat  between  his  wide-open  knees.  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  was  writing. 

"  There  is  your  receipt,  Mr.  Beck," 
she  said,  handing  him  a  slip  of  paper. 
"  It  is  not  a  certificate,  because  there  is 
no  company  yet  formed  ;  but  your  divi- 
dend is  secure.     I  am  good  for  it." 

Beck  read  the  paper,  took  up  a  pinch 
of  white  ashes  from  under  the  grate  to 
sprinkle  on  it  to  dry  the  ink,  and  then 
stowed  it  carefully  away  in  his  wallet. 
"  I  reckon  I'm  satisfied  with  mv  backer," 
he  chuckled.  "  Them's  my  savin's  since 
I  first  did  a  stroke  of  work.  I  was 
afeard  of  banks,  and  we  kept  'em  in  an 
old  tea-pot.  That's  so.  They  growed 
very  slow  ;  especially  as  Matt's  a'most 
raised  an'  '11  be  needin'  schoolin'  soon. 
I'd  like  to  give  him  a  start  ahead  of 
what  me  and  Peggy  had.  So  it  seemed 
kind  a  providential  when  the  madam 
opened  up  this  way  for  us  to  make  a  for- 
tune out  of  hand.  But  it  cost  Peggy 
and  me  a  tug  to  give  up  the  old  Queen, 
for  all,  sir,"  for  Mr.  Rattlin  had  stopped 
and  was  hstening  patiently. 

"  No  doubt,  Mr.  Beck — no  doubt.  I 
had  no  idea  that  we  were  so  attached  to 
our  own  little  house  until  we  left  it  last 
week :  we  quite  forgot  that  the  roof 
leaked,  and  that  the  children  have  grown 
so  big  that  they  threaten  to  split  it  open 
like  a  locust's  back.  It  was  just  adapted 
to  my  wife  and  me  when  we  were  mar- 
ried. But  there  are  eleven  of  us  now, 
all  told." 

"  You've  given  up  your  old  place  to 
go  to  the  wells,  Mr.  Rattlin  ?"  said  Dour, 
joining  them,  with  an  embarrassed  effort 
at  ease. 

"Yes.  The  whole  country  is  in  a 
ferment.  Emigrants  are  arriving  daily 
and  going  to  the  wells.  There  is  great 
work  to  be  done  fhere — the  field  is  white 
for  the  harvest.  When  Madam  Gal- 
braith summoned  me,  I  heritated  long 
before  going.     The  responsibility  will  be 


146 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


heavy.  It  ought  to  have  been  laid  upon 
a  different  man.  I  doubt  often,  now,  if 
I  was  not  presumptuous,"  anxiously. 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  doubt,"  said 
Dour,  putting  his  hand  heartily  on 
Mr.  Rattlin's  stooped  shoulders.  His 
heart  warmed  to  Gerty's  father.  It 
would  have  warmed  to  the  very  dog  of 
the  house  in  which  she  lived  ;  though 
she  was  but  a  silly  girl,  and  his  life  lay 
quite  in  another  sphere  from  hers. 

There  was  no  sham  in  the  humble 
fear  of  the  little  man,  but  he  quickly 
checked  its  utterance.  What  right  had 
he  to  be  chattering  of  himself  or  his 
fitness  ?  "  It  is  a  great  work,  Mr.  Dour, 
which  Madam  Galbraith  has  undertaken 
so  late  in  life." 

"  She  is  a  shrewd  woman.  At  the  pres- 
ent price  of  even  doubtful  oil  stock — " 

"  She  had  no  eyes  upon  oil,  sir," 
eagerly,  "nor  profit.  It  is  a  care  for 
souls.  She  was  frank  with  me  as  to  her 
motive.  '  Let  me  feed  the  bodies  of 
these  men,  Mr.  Rattlin,'  she  said  ;  '  give 
them  work,  cheerful  homes,  education, 
and  they  are  much  more  ready  for  you 
to  lead  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.' 
She  may  be  right,"  meditatively.  "As- 
cetic religion  was  pushed  very  far — very 
far — by  the  Papists.  I  doubt  its  effi- 
cacy.    Now,  we  Protestants — " 

"  She  is  a  shrewd  woman,"  repeated 
Dour,  quietly. 

"  You  think  she  is  right,  then  ?  Well, 
there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  done,"  cheer- 
fully. "  Church,  Sunday-school  and 
weekly  lectures  to  be  inaugurated.  I'm 
glad  our  friend  Beck  here  has  moved  to 
the  town,  and  put  his  shoulder  to  the 
wheel.     His  example  may  do  much." 

"  I've  put  my  shoulder  to  because  / 
mean  to  rise  ile,"  said  Beck,  sturdily, 
buttoning  his  coat.  "  My  dooty  is  to 
Peggy  and  Matt.  As  for  the  Dutch  and 
their  souls,  that's  a  horse  of  another 
color.  I  don't  know  it  No  disrespect 
to  you.  Mr.  Ratdin." 

"  No,  Beck,  certainly  not,"  watching 
him  make  his  bow  and  exit  with  a  good- 
humored  smile.  "  Beck  is  a  neighbor 
of  mine  in  our  new  village.  He  has  put 
all  he  has  into  the  scheme." 

Dour  was  looking  down  at  the  litde 


cheerful  cricket  of  a  man  with  a  nervous- 
ness singular  in  the  self-possessed,  trig, 
ready  youth.  "  Is  your  new  home  as 
pleasant  as  the  old  one  ?  That  was  a 
very  peculiar  house,  I  think." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  there  are  a  dozen 
like  it  within  a  stone's  throw  !  The  new 
one  is  infinitely  superior.  And  I  have 
bought  my  mare  back — Jenny — from 
Whitcross.  You've  heard  me  speak  of 
Jenny  V 

"  Is  Mrs.  Rattlin  well  ?  And— the 
children  ?"  with  a  quaking  in  his  narrow 
chest  for  which  he  could  have  scourged 
himself 

"  Well,  no.  Tony  has  a  weakness  in 
one  leg — a  fall,  we  fear — and  the  baby 
is  just  over  the  measles.  There  have 
been  changes  among  us  since  you  left 
us,  Mr.  Dour,  and  there  will  be  greater 
soon,  I  fear.  Come  down.  I  would 
like  to  show  you  Jenny.  We  felt  as  if 
an  old  friend  had  come  back  again — " 

Madam  Galbraith  came  up,  and,  beck- 
oning to  Mr.  Rattlin,  led  him  away  for 
consultation.  There  was  a  grave  respect 
in  her  manner  to  him  which  she  showed 
to  no  one  else.  Mr.  Dour  was  left  alone, 
more  startled  than  he  chose  to  own. 
What  changes  could  be  coming  among 
the  Rattlin  brood .?  Tom  was  going  to 
school,  perhaps,  or  the  twins  were  ail- 
ing. If  they  were  not  so  cursedly 
healthy  and  such  hearty  feeders,  a  man 
need  not  be  afraid  of  marrying  the  whole 
family. 

He  turned  sharply  around  on  pretty 
Mrs.  Duffield,  who  had  halted  in  the 
open  door,  taking  in  the  hard,  earnest 
room  and  hard,  earnest  people  in  it,  with 
an  amused,  placid  glance  :  "  Mr.  Rattlin 
spoke  of  impending  changes  in  his 
family,  just  now.  Do  you  know  what 
they  are,  Mrs.  Duffield  ?" 

"  One  of  his  daughters  is  to  be  mar- 
ried, I  believe.  Rosa,  Gertrude — what 
are  their  names  ?  If  you  will  close  that 
window,  Mr.  Dour,  I  think  I  will  come 
in,"  composing  herself  in  Madam  Gal- 
braith's  chair  with  a  little  shiver. 

The  old  lady  turned  on  hearing  their 
voices.  "  If  you  are  persuading  my 
daughter-in-law  to  join  in  our  scheme," 
she     said,    sharply,    "your    efforts    are 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


147 


wasted,  Mr.  Dour.  She  is  the  only 
member  of  my  household  who  stands 
aloof.  I  was  much  gratified,  by  the  way, 
to-day  " — to  Mr.  Rattlin — "  when  a  wo- 
man whom  I  have  employed  for  years 
put  her  earnings  into  my  hands.  A 
canny  Jersey  woman,  too — my  house- 
keeper. She  had,  apparently,  entire  con- 
fidence in  my  judgment,  as,  I  must  say, 
even  the  business  men  of  the  county  ap- 
pear to  have." 

But  Mrs.  Dufiield,  quite  unconscious 
of  being  lashed  over  Lizzy's  shoulder, 
drew  back  her  soft  lilac  dress,  lest  the 
fire  should  fade  it,  and  putting  up  her 
dainty  feet  on  a  footstool,  leaned  back 
and  surveyed  them  all  with  the  critical 
good-humor  of  the  spectator  of  a  comedy. 

Mr.  Rattlin  came  up  to  her.  "  Mad- 
am Galbraith  hopes  to  do  a  great  work 
among  these  people,"  he  said,  anxiously. 
"  I  still  think  you  will  help  us.  If  you 
would  try  to  make  one  soul  among  them 
purer  and  better.  At  your  age,  and 
childless — " 

"  I  ought  to  be  laying  up  treasure  in 
heaven,"  with  herpleasant,  indolent  smile. 
■•  But  I  object  to  helping  you,  personally, 
on  principle,  Mr.  Ratthn.  It  hardens 
one  terribly  to  work  among  the  poor. 
Your  managers  of  almshouses  and  asy- 
lums always  degenerate  into  machines. 
They've  no  sympathy  with  the  sensitive, 
acute  pain  which  you  feel,  looking  on 
misery  from  far  off.  I  grew  calloused 
enough  when  I  lived  among  the  poor 
unfortunates.  I  took  in  washing  dur- 
ing my  first  husband's  life-time,  you 
know.  I  was  quite  convinced  then  that 
I  had  no  call  to  be  a  reformer." 

Madam  Galbraith  brought  her  pon- 
derous body  between  her  and  the  fire. 
She  had  been  watching  the  insouciant 
little  lady  with  angry  eagerness  from 
under  her  heavy  brows.  It  gave  her 
little  comfort  that  the  whole  of  the  coun- 
ty acknowledged  her  leadership,  so  long 
as  this  Mordecai  disregarded  her  within 
her  very  gates.  "  One  would  think  you 
would  wish  to  see  your  native  State  de- 
veloped," she  said,  in  an  acrid  tone. 
"  Your  patriotism — "  and  there  stopped. 

Mrs.  Duffield  waited  courteously  for 
her  to  finish.     "  I  have  no  call  to  be  a 


reformer,"  she  repeated,  with  vivacity. 
"  As  for  patriotism,  I  have  not  an  atom 
in  my  veins — not  an  atom." 

Mr.  Dour,  who  had  been  standing 
gloomily  by  the  window,  roused  himself 
to  join  Madam  Galbraith.  "  But  you 
must  have  some  esprit  de  corps,  Mrs. 
Duffield,"  he  said.  "  You  are  one  of  us. 
We  have  put  all  we  have  into  this  ven- 
ture. We  are  in  the  same  ship  to- 
gether—" 

"Then  I'll — 'paddle  my  own  canoe,'" 
sang  the  sweetest  and  most  liquid  of 
voices.  It  was  one  of  her  attractive 
little  ways,  to  embroider  her  talk  with 
snatches  of  songs  (with  no  high  notes 
to  show  the  crack  in  her  tones).  But 
she  was  too  indolent  to  be  vivacious  or 
winning  long.  She  bent  forward  with  a 
steady  look,  as  if  determined  to  put  a 
stop  to  her  annoyance  for  ever.  "  I 
wish  Madam  Galbraith  success,"  with  a 
grave  little  bow.  "  May  she  find  her 
subjects  submissive  !  But,  my  dear  Mr. 
Rattlin,  never  talk  to  me  about  the  poor. 
There  is  a  class  of  people  to  whom 
such  talk  is  jarring  and  morbid.  Their 
religion  comes  to  them  through  good 
clothes,  good  music,  gentle,  aesthetic 
emotions.  I  think  I  am  one  of  them. 
We  are  the  right  hand  of  the  world  ;  and 
if  you  are  the  left,  you  should  not  let  us 
know  the  good  you  do." 

Mr.  Rattlin  looked  bewildered  at  the 
ironical  smile  on  her  lips.  It  disap- 
peared as  she  turned  to  Mr.  Dour :  "  My 
little  property  would  be  of  no  value  in 
your  great  undertaking.  But  it  is  in- 
vested in  State  securities,  and  yields  me 
six  per  cent,  in  gold.  It  is  very  com- 
fortable to  have  it  in  gold." 

"  But  in  oil—" 

"  The  flow  of  brine  will  not  account 
for  the  late  stoppages  in  your  wells,"  a 
keen  glint  in  her  eyes.  "  When  the 
pulse  is  uneven,  the  man  is  sick — sick, 
Mr.  Dour." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  as  this 
bombshell  fell.  Dour  looked  anxiously 
at  Madam  Galbraith.  "Paraffine!"  she 
growled,  contemptuously,  taking  up  a 
map. 

"  But  the  paraffine  cannot  clog  my  six 
per  cent   in   gold,"  retorted   Mrs.  Duf- 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


field,  arching  her  golden-brown  eye- 
brows significantly.  "  Come,  Honora, 
let  us  go.  We  are  without  the  camp," 
putting  her  arm  about  Miss  Dundas. 

She  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
had  reached  her  own  room,  and  she  had 
given  Honora  a  chair  near  her  softly- 
cushioned  lounge.  Then  she  walked 
restlessly  to  the  window  and  back  again, 
a  look  of  almost  anxiety  on  her  fair  face. 
"  I  can  read  defeat  and  disaster  written 
on  the  very  walls  of  this  house,"  she 
said,  at  last.  "  It  seems  as  if  it  were 
God's  will  that  no  family  should  stand 
long  secure  in  this  country.  There  is  a 
sort  of  leprosy  attacks  all  large  fortunes. 
After  a  generation  or  two  they  all 
moulder — moulder.  But  one  does  not 
care  to  be  in  the  falling  house."  She 
seated  herself  a  moment  after,  arranging 
herself  comfortably  with  her  usual  good- 
tempered  calm. 

There  were  no  signs  of  defeat  or  de- 
cay in  the  wide,  dainty  room  to  which 
the  firelight  gave  such  warmth  and  snug- 
ness.  It  was  curious  to  note  how  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  had  gradually  sacrificed  to 
it  the  best  which  the  house  could  afford 
of  beauty  or  taste.  Not  that  she  had 
any  fondness  for  the  httle  woman,  who 
sank  into  her  luxurious  home  as  nat- 
urally as  a  bird  into  its  nest ;  nor  that 
the  said  little  woman  would  have  given 
one  shrug  of  discontent  if  they  had 
lodged  her  on  bare  floors. 

The  room  had  taken  meaning,  also, 
since  she  came.  There  were  engravings, 
sketches,  rare  pieces  of  glass,  all  man- 
ner of  delicate  souvenirs  from  guests 
who,  when  gone,  had  sent  back  some 
trifle  to  give  her  pleasure.  Yet  they  all 
loved  Honora  better. 

But  Honora  was  not  one  of  the 
world's  bits  of  useless  porcelain  which  it 
delights  to  set  aside  and  guard. 

"You  have  no  faith  in  my  aunt's 
foresight,  then  ?"  Miss  Dundas  said, 
gloomily,  after  a  long  silence. 

Mrs.  Duffield  gave  a  most  expressive 
wave  of  her  fingers.  She  had  drawn 
her  work-basket  toward  her  and  was 
twisting  a  cord  about  a  blue  velvet  Nor- 
mandy cap,  which  was  the  only  cover- 
ing which   she   permitted   on   her   hair. 


"Pah  !"  she  said.  "  But  what  of  that  ? 
She  is  like  an  old,  untamed  animal.  It 
would  be  death  to  her  to  balk  her." 
After  pausing  a  moment  to  look  criti- 
cally at  her  cap,  she  continued,  gravely : 
"  But  these  poor  souls  for  whom  she  in- 
tends conversion  !  Now,  positively,  Ho- 
nora, I  would  as  soon  be  gored  into  hea- 
ven by  a  herd  of  wild  buffaloes." 

Miss  Dundas  sat  motionless,  her  face 
toward  the  fire,  for  some  time.  When 
she  spoke,  she  did  not  look  at  her  com- 
panion. "  If  I  could  tell  you  all  that 
was  at  stake,  you  would  interfere.  There 
is  a  secret — " 

Mrs.  Duffield  gave  her  a  quick,  search- 
ing glance.  The  girl's  great  and  sup- 
pressed agitation  would  have  made  any 
other  woman  curious ;  but  Mrs.  Duf- 
field put  up  her  hand  with  positive 
alarm.  "  My  dear  girl,  choose  anybody 
for  your  confidant  but  me.  I  really  can- 
not be  annoyed  by  this  matter  ;  and  as 
for  secrets,  I  never  had  one  of  my  own 
in  my  life.     They  are  childish,  silly." 

"  You  will  not  interfere,  then  ?" 

"  Certainly  ;z^/,"  taking  up  her  work 
again.  Honora  had  risen  and  stood  re- 
garding Dallas'  mother  with  impatient 
scorn.  "  Then  I  wash  my  hands  of  it !" 
she  said,  bitterly.  "  What  can  I  do 
alone  ?" 

"Very  little,  my  dear,"  tranquilly. 
"  You  are  quite  wise  not  to  vex  yourself" 
After  a  pause  she  looked  up :  "  When 
you  are  as  old  as  I,  you  will  have  learned 
the  sense  of  being  a  mere  spectator  in 
the  world.  This  dear  old  lady  did  not 
control  her  nature  in  her  youth,  and  it  is 
sweeping  her  headlong  to  ruin  in  her 
age.  That  is  inevitable.  Why  should 
I  throw  myself  in  the  way?  Now,  why 
should  I,  Honora  ?"  with  a  gentle  ap- 
peal. "  When  you  meet  that  which  is 
inevitable  never  make  a  single  struggle 
against  it — not  if  it  brings  your  own 
death  to  you.  Die  if  you  must,  but 
there  is  no  need  that  you  should  be 
weak  and  foolish.  I  have  something  for 
your  uncle  here,"  changing  her  tone, 
and  bringing  from  a  closet  some  bunches 
of  foreign  grapes,  which  she  heaped  on 
a  plate,  with  leaves  under  them.  "  Now 
give   me   that  rose,  my  dear.     An  old 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


149 


friend  sent  them  to  me.  There.  Will 
you  take  them  to  him  ?  They  will  give 
flavor  to  his  book,  perhaps." 

«•  I  will  take  them,"  said  Honora,  un- 
derstanding that  she  and  the  trouble  of 
the  house  were  dismissed  together. 

When  Honora  had  left  her  uncle,  he 
dropped  Ronsard  on  his  knee  as  though 
he  had  suddenly  lost  all  relish  for  his 
monstrous  welding  of  bad  Greek  and 
French,  and  sat  listening  intently  to 
every  inflection  of  his  wife's  harsh  voice. 
He  had  studied  her  voice  for  forty  years  : 
he  had  learned  through  it  her  secret 
thoughts  and  passions  as  surely  as  men 
measure  the  far-off  heights  and  depths 
of  a  mountainous,  unsafe  country  by  a 
breath  of  vapor.  No  man  ever  brought 
to  such  study  the  patience  and  strength 
of  this  meek,  gentlest  of  gentlemen  ;  and 
having  found  the  mastery  over  her,  he 
had  lield  his  controlling  hand  steadily. 
Only  Hannah  Dour  knew  from  what  pit- 
falls and  gulfs  of  passion  that  inflexible 
hand  had  saved  her. 

He  understood,  as  few  men  do,  a  cer- 
tain ebb  and  flow  in  the  souls  of  some 
women,  half  physical,  half  spiritual — an 
abnormal  swell,  a  flood-tide  of  the  mys- 
terious life  within,  which,  in  a  woman 
of  Madam  Galbraith's  age,  nervous  and 
childless,  drifts  the  body  like  a  weed 
close  upon  the  boundaries  of  life  and 
death.  He  had  noted  lately  the  signs 
of  its  rising :  the  dead,  inactive  lassitude 
of  brain,  alternating  with  unnatural  vigor. 
Listening  now  to  her  inarticulate  tones, 
he  judged  her  more  justly  than  those 
who  heard  her  words,  or  than  she  did 
herself  It  was  not  greed  that  possessed 
her,  as  Dour  thought,  nor  love  of  power, 
nor  the  hope  of  saving  souls. 

"  She  must  not  be  thwarted,"  he  said 
at  last,  rising,  decisively.  "  If  the  end 
be  beggary,  she  must  not  be  thwarted. 
Unless — "  Going  into  the  room,  he 
found  her  alone,  the  maps  pushed  from 
her.  and  her  hands  pressed  into  her  fore- 
head. 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "  You  are 
tired,  Hannah  ?"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  James  !" 

« I  wish  you  would  rest.  What  if 
you    put    this    w^hole    tangled    business 


aside  and  forget  both  it  and  yourself  for 
a  while  .''  A  sea  voyage,  or  that  explor- 
ing journey  through  the  West  we  used 
to  plan  when  we  were  young — " 

"We  are  not  young  now,  James.  It 
is  not  far  from  the  end."  She  took  her 
hands  down  and  looked  at  him.  "  If  I 
had  been  a  man,  1  would  have  made  my 
mark  upon  the  world.  But  when  I  am 
gone,  there  will  not  be  a  sign  on  the  earth 
that  I  have  lived." 

"  Does  that  cost  you  so  much  V  with 
a  strange  smile. 

"There  is  not  an  hour  of  the  day 
when  it  is  not  present  to  me."  She 
stood  up  pointing  to  the  distant  moun- 
tains and  broad  river  :  "  T  will  do  what 
I  can.  That  is  the  Dour  land.  I  am 
the  last  of  many  generations.  I  will 
write  my  name  on  it  so  that  time  itself 
shall  never  wipe  it  out." 

Mr.  Galbraith  hesitated  before  he 
spoke,  as  if  the  words  he  meant  to  utter 
were  a  forlorn  hope  which  he  threw  in 
her  way :  "  If  our  boy — if  Tom  were  here 
you  would  not  care  for  this  work." 

"  How  can  I  tell,"  wiping  her  fore- 
head. The  old  tenderness  had  gone  out 
of  her  eyes  :  they  were  firm  and  grasp- 
ing as  a  hawk's  swooping  on  its  quarry. 
"  He  was  but  one — I  am  going  to  save 
many  souls.  I  am  called  to  do  a  great 
work.  I  must  have  something  to  fill  up 
this  gap,"  hoarsely,  laying  her  hand  or 
her  broad  breast.  '<  Do  not  stop  me 
James,  do  not  stand  in  my  way." 

"  I  will  not  stand  in  your  way,  Han 
nah,"  he  replied,  gently. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

When  Mr.  Rattlin  made  his  adieux 
to  the  stern  old  woman  bending  over  her 
maps,  Mr.  Dour  followed  him  out.  "Tl] 
walk  down  the  avenue  with  you,"  he 
said.  But  he  went  no  farther  than  the 
door.  When  they  were  outside,  he 
glanced  up  at  the  massive  hous«  acd 
then  at  the  wide  sweep  of  landscape,  re- 
peating a  lesson  he  had  taken  pains  to 
learn,  that  when  he  married  Miss  Dun- 


150 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


das  all  this  would  be  his.  What  was  it 
to  him  which  of  the  preacher's  little 
daughters  was  to  be  married  ! 

Yet,  when  Mr.  Rattlin  had  gone,  he 
followed  him  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
looking  after  him,  with  a  homesick  long- 
ing which  shamed  him.  That  Gerty 
should  marry !  Why,  there  had  not 
been  a  moment  when  he  was  gone  that 
she  had  not  been  in  his  thoughts,  a  win- 
ning, tender  presence.  And  at  the  very 
moment  she  had  been  giving  her  soft 
hps  to  the  touch  of  another  man  ! 

In  the  few  days  that  followed,  Mr. 
Dour  became  prime  councilor  with 
Madam  Galbraith.  He  was  so  defer- 
ential to  her,  so  regardless  of  Honora, 
that  the  old  lady  accused  herself  with 
injustice.  "  He  has  no  folly  about  mar- 
riage in  his  head,"  she  said.  "And  he 
will  make  a  very  fair  business  man — un- 
der control,  of  course."  The  truth  was, 
there  were  certain  gaps  and  weak  places 
in  the  schemes  of  her  own  imperial  in- 
tellect, the  patching  of  which  she  left 
to  meaner  minds,  taking  it  for  granted 
that  they  knew  their  place. 

Paul,  on  the  contrary,  wrote  to  his 
mother  :  "  Many  persons  prophesy  dis- 
aster, being  prejudiced  by  the  old  lady's 
visionary,  violent  character.  But  oil  is 
oil  and  capital  is  capital.  They  are 
secure.  She  has  the  sense,  too,  to  leave 
all  important  arrangements  to  me  and 
others,  comprehending  the  difference  be- 
tween a  man's  intellect  and  a  woman's. 
I  think  she  has  a  plan  for  marrying  me 
to  her  niece.  I  would  have  the  business 
capacity,  and  she  the  capital — a  usual 
partnership.  But  marrying  is  very  far 
from  my  thoughts."  He  had  no  mind 
to  take  anybody  into  his  confidence.  As 
soon  as  he  could  see  his  way  clear  he 
meant  to  marry  Miss  Dundas. 

Honora,  meanwhile,  had  driven  down 
to  the  wells  to  bring  Gerty  up,  as  she 
proposed.  The  Rattlins  swarmed,  at 
present,  in  a  half-finished  house  full  of 
raw  carpenter- work  and  wet  paint. 
"You  need  not  wait  for  me,  Honora," 
said  Gerty,  loftily.  "Papa  will  take  me 
up  if  I  determine  to  go."  Then  she 
went  into  her  mother's  room,  and  sat 
down  :   "  There  is  no  use  in  bringing  out 


my  clothes,  mother.  There's  only  the 
faded  old  merino  with  the  patch  on  the 
elbow.  That's  the  beginning  and  end," 
with  a  laugh  which  brought  the  tears 
into  Mrs.  Rattlin's  eyes.  For  Madam 
Galbraith,  in  her  great  scheme,  had  for- 
gotten her  usual  box  of  spring  clothes, 
which  imported  so  much  to  the  poor 
preacher's  household. 

Mrs.  Rattlin  did  take  down  the  faded 
merino,  and  turned  it  over  hopelessly. 
"  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  dresses  we 
had  to  buy  for  Rosy — " 

"  I  don't  begrudge  Rosy  her  few  Httle 
things  or  her  happiness,"  said  Gerty, 
pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  pale 
cheeks.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  mother. 
But  it's  hard  that  my  whole  life  should 
depend  on  the  want  of  clothes." 

"If  your  dress  makes  any  difference 
to  him,  he's  not  worthy  of  you,  Gerty," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Rattlin,  hotly.  "In  my  day, 
true  love  didn't  come  and  go  with  gowns." 

"  I  suppose  Honora  wants  me  there 
as  a  foil,"  said  Gerty,  spitefully.  "  But 
he  never  cared  for  her  when  I  was  there, 
as  lovely  as  her  things  were  this  winter. 
He  cared  for  me."  She  came  and  put 
her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  and 
cried  there  silently.  She  had  grown 
quiet  and  gentle  as  never  before  during 
the  winter  months,  while  Rosy  was 
making  ready  for  her  wedding.  Her 
mother  was  the  only  one  to  whom  she 
talked  of  Dour  or  her  hope  in  him.  The 
two  women  had  waited  day  after  day 
since  he  returned,  for  him  to  come,  the 
aching  pain  as  sharp  in  the  mother's 
heart  as  in  the  child's.  They  had  walked 
together  every  evening  beyond  the  der- 
ricks to  the  point  where  they  could  see 
the  Galbraith  house  on  the  hill-side. 
Even  that  was  some  comfort  to  Gerty, 
her  mother  fancied.  The  girl  raised  her 
head  at  last,  and  taking  the  old  merino, 
hung  it  up  quietly.  "  I  cannot  go.  It's 
all  over,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  !  your  day  will  come. 
Cannot  you  trust  a  little  in  the  Lord  ?" 

"  What  does  He  care  for  a  girl's  shabby 
clothes  ?  No,  mother ;  Rosy  shall  be 
married  and  happy,  and  I'll  stay  and 
help  you  with  the  children.  I'll  be 
an  old  maid   and  sew  and  do  kitchen- 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


'5' 


work  on  to  the  end,  as  I've  begun,  and 
grow  old  and  die,  and  wake  up  in  hea- 
ven alone — alone  !"  sitting  down  on 
Tony's  trundle  bed  and  hiding  her  eyes, 
sobbing.  "  I  think  I'll  go  and  walk 
a  while,"  she  said  at  last  ;  and  putting 
on  her  worsted  hood,  to  hide  her  eyes, 
she  went  out,  while  Mrs.  Ratllin  sat 
down  to  patch  Joe's  trowsers,  with  a 
great  weight  at  her  heart.  When  a  girl 
Hke  Gerty  misses  her  chance  of  mar- 
riage, what  is  there  to  give  her  to  fill  up 
her  life  ?     What  is  there  .-• 

It  was  a  cheerful  morning.  Down  by 
the  muddy  meadow-creek  the  willows 
began  to  look  like  pale-green  mists  held 
motionless  in  the  air,  and  here  and  there 
under  her  feet  a  bluebell  or  dandelion 
peeped  up  from  under  last  year's  grass  ; 
but  Gerty  hurried  on,  blind  to  them,  into 
the  crowded  lanes,  which  crept  outward, 
crooked  as  a  spider's  claws,  from  the 
oil-wells.  She  passed  under  the  shadow 
of  the  great  derricks,  stopped  to  look  at 
tlie  green  mass  in  the  enormous  tanks, 
and  then  walked  more  slowly  through 
the  rows  of  unfinished  wooden  houses 
and  the  swarms  of  workmen  and  Dutch 
emigrants,  all  chattering,  eager,  busy. 
She  crept  along  still  more  slowly  by  the 
towering,  half-built  factories,  the  tent- 
like roofs  of  the  rolling-mills,  bitter 
speculation  in  her  chubby,  doll-face. 
For  Gerty  was  weighing  the  value  of 
mills  and  oil  against  that  same  doll-face. 
They  were  Honora's  fortune.  Gerty 
was  dumb  when  her  father  talked  of  the 
love  of  God  shown  in  Madam  Gal- 
braith's  gigantic  scheme  of  philanthropy  ; 
but  its  percentage  the  girl  could  under- 
stand well  enough.  It  was  her  rival. 
There  was  not  a  sign  in  the  long 
battle  between  Paul  Dour's  avarice  and 
love  that  the  giddy,  kittenish  cherub  (as 
he  thought  her)  beside  him  had  not 
keenly  seen  and  noted.  She  passed 
drearily  out  of  the  town,  and  looked 
back  into  the  crowd  and  heat,  with  its 
overhanging  cloud  of  black  smoke.  It 
was  only  to  Gerty  a  great  engine,  which 
dragged  the  triumphant  car  of  the  bril- 
liant little  heiress.  Then  she  thought 
of  her  one  faded  dress,  and  her  soul  was 
bitter  within  her. 


Outside  of  the  nucleus  of  life  which  had 
suddenly  appeared  in  their  midst,  the 
hills  fell  back  into  their  old  melancholy 
silence  and  solitude.  Gerty,  leaving  the 
town  a  few  rods  behind  her,  was  utterly 
alone.  It  was  a  narrow  cattle-path 
which  she  had  followed,  through  a  cleft 
of  the  hills.  She  sat  down  on  some  dry 
rocks  which  shelved  down  on  the  banks 
of  the  creek  :  there  were  the  ruins  of  an 
old  mill  below  her,  the  sun  shining 
brightly  on  the  broken,  mossy  wheel  and 
charred  rafters.  Dour,  walking  down 
the  same  path  an  hour  before,  on  his 
way  to  the  town,  had  stopped  to  notice 
the  picturesque  beauty  of  the  place ; 
but  Gerty  saw  nothing,  unless  it  was 
the  cHnging  folds  of  the  ill-fitting  yellow 
dress  she  wore  and  the  faded,  cherry- 
colored  hood  which  she  took  from  her 
head.  Her  clothes  were  only  the  sign  of 
her  life — all  faded  and  worn  out  together. 
She  crouched  down,  remembering  the 
dinner  uncooked  at  home,  looking  wist- 
fully at  the  bright  water's  drip,  drip. 
To  the  poor  little  Rattlin  girl,  forced 
back  from  love,  marriage  and  mother- 
hood to  unending  sewing  and  kitchen- 
work,  life  was  as  vacant,  and  the 
rest  of  "  muddy  death "  as  alluring, 
as  to  Ophelia.  But  Gerty  only  stood 
and  looked  at  it  After  an  hour  she 
stood  up  to  go  back  to  the  sweeping  and 
dish-washing.  Then  it  was  that  she 
heard  a  quick,  decided  step  on  the  beaten 
path,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  mill 
logs  until  the  intruder  should  pass  on. 
The  step  came  nearer :  the  man  gave 
a  hoarse  cough.  She  got  up,  put  out 
one  hand,  as  if  she  would  have  fallen, 
and  then  cowered  down  lower  than  be- 
fore, forgetting  her  clothes,  her  misery 
— herself. 

It  was  Dour's  first  visit  to  the  town. 
He  knew  every  dollar  invested  in  it 
through  Madam  Galbraith's  books,  and 
the  probable  capacity  of  each  well  from 
Mr.  Finn,  the  expert  whom  she  had  em- 
ployed to  oversee  their  opening — had 
gone  over  maps  and  accounts  with  the 
lingering  tenderness  of  an  heir-at-law 
taking  stock  of  his  future  possessions. 
But  he  had  not  before  found  courage  to 
see,  touch,  handle  them.     This  chubby 


152 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


figure  in  the  yellow  dress  would  not  be 
thrust  from  the  secret  recess  of  his 
heart,  though  it  was  more  terrible  to  him 
there  than  any  skeleton. 

He  had  pushed  through  the  crowd, 
smelled  the  oil  and  surveyed  the  mills 
and  the  drays  loaded  with  pig-metal, 
with  the  same  light  shining  on  them  all 
which  Gerty  had  seen.  They  were  Ho- 
nora's  fortune. 

They  were  his  price. 

He  had  not  seen  the  golden  shekels 
before  for  which  he  meant  to  sell  himself. 
Their  ring  and  glitter  touched  him  home. 
He  was  no  longer  Madam  Galbraith's 
feed  clerk  :  he  was  an  absolute  dictator. 
He  was  quite  satisfied  to  stand  off  from 
oil  and  iron  and  accept  Finn's  fluent  as- 
sertions and  the  mill-master's  guarded 
estimate.  Dour  told  himself  that  his 
was  the  controlling  faculty  which  en- 
abled him  to  use  the  brains  of  these  men 
as  tools — to  convert  their  knowledge  into 
capital  for  himself  While  he  was  tip- 
toeing complacently  through  the  street, 
swinging  his  cane,  his  nattily-brushed 
coat  buttoned  about  his  narrow  chest, 
Mr.  Rattlin  hailed  him :  "  Why,  bless  me, 
Dour  !  Come  over,  man  ;  I  want  you  to 
see  the  mother,  and  Jenny,  our  mare. 
Did  I  tell  you  I  had  got  her  back  from 
Whitcross  ?" 

Dour  followed  him  only  to  the  stable  : 
he  would  not  be  drawn  farther.  But 
through  the  window  he  saw  the  shabby 
dining-room,  the  huddle  of  unwashed 
children,  the  meagre  dishes  upon  the 
table,  and  a  flood  of  disgust  rose  within 
him,  and  quite  overwhelmed  that  old 
love,  he  thought. 

He  made  short  work  of  it  with  Jenny 
and  her  light-hearted  little  master.  Mr. 
Rattlin  never  thought  of  his  daughters 
but  as  children,  nor  introduced  them  into 
his  conversation  ;  and  when  Dour  would 
have  asked  with  indifference  which  of 
them  was  going  to  leave  her  home,  some- 
thing rose  in  his  throat  and  choked 
him. 

Yet  he  was  awkward  and  silent  while 
Mr.  Rattlin  dilated  over  Jenny,  held  the 
little  man's  hand  a  moment  at  parting,  as 
•■hough  bidding  to  him,  or  something 
which  lay  behind  him,  a  last  good-bye. 


and  when  he  left  him,  did  not  go  back 
to  the  town,  but  turned  to  the  mill-path 
and  walked  hurriedly  toward  home.  The 
sooner  he  was  out  of  danger  the  better, 
he  told  himself.  He  would  propose  to 
Miss  Dundas  to-night. 

Looking  up  with  the  thought,  he  saw 
a  plump  little  woman,  in  a  faded  hood, 
shrinking  behind  one  of  the  beams  of 
the  mill,  as  if  to  avoid  him.  Inside  of 
his  tact,  philosophy,  measurements  of 
pig-metal  and  oil,  there  was  a  sudden 
terrible  throb. 

He  walked  straight  to  her. 

Paul  Dour  knew  a  hundred  women 
prettier,  more  companionable,  more  win- 
ning than  this  untidy  girl  in  yellow : 
what  nerve  or  cord  or  magnetic  fluid  was 
there  between  his  heart  and  hers  that 
gave  him  that  wrench  and  brought  him 
to  her  against  his  will  ?  Who  will  tell 
us  the  history,  before  we  were  born,  of 
that  living  creature  within  us  which  goes 
about  to  find  its  mate  in  all  imprac- 
ticable places,  deaf  to  reason  .?  It  drag- 
ged Paul  close  to  Gerty :  it  spoke 
through  his  eyes  and  mouth  ;  it  tried  to 
drive  his  calculations  out  of  his  head,  as 
though  they  had  been  vile  money- 
changers in  the  temple. 

"Gerty!"  he  said.  "Will  you  not 
speak  to  me,  Gerty  .?" 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Dour."  Her  dignity  would  have  im- 
pressed us,  perhaps,  as  much  as  that  of 
a  pullet,  but  it  forced  this  astute  fellow 
back  with  actual  pain. 

"Why  do  you  hold  your  hands 
clasped  ?"  putting  his  fingers  on  them. 
"  Will  you  not  trust  me  ?  In  memory  of 
our  old  friendship." 

"  That  is  dead  and  gone." 

"It  was  not  killed  by  me.  You  are 
as — you  are  the  same  to  me  that  you 
ever  were.  You  are  the  same,  Gerty." 
He  held  her  closely-shut  hands  and  drew 
her  slowly,  passionately  toward  him. 
Whether  from  art  or  real  despair  and 
jealousy  of  Honora,  or  physical  weari- 
ness from  her  hysteric  sobbing,  Gerty 
remained  cold  as  marble — her  fat  cheeks 
pale,  her  wide,  brown  eyes  meeting  his, 
sad  and  fearless.  The  bird  was  not  in 
his  reach  ;  and,  after  all,  it  was  the  only 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


53 


tKing  in  the  world  which  his  heart  had 
roally  coveted. 

He  pushed  her  from  him  :  "  You  have 
found  some  one  who  is  more  to  you  than 
I.     I  know  that  you  are  to  be  married." 

"  No  ;  it  is  Rosy.  There  was  a  man 
who  loved  me  very  much,"  with  a  cer- 
tain childish  gravity,  "and  he  would 
have  made  me  his  wife  this  winter ;  but 
I  would  not  choose  that  degradation." 

"  Why  is  it  degradation  ?" 

"  I  did  not  love  him."  She  was  hold- 
ing back  the  tears  under  her  strait  lids, 
and  did  not  see  the  effect  which  her 
quiet  words  had  upon  her  hearer. 

"  Poor  Gerty  !  Your  ideas  of  honor 
are  out  of  date,"  with  a  cynical  laugh. 
"  A  woman  has  only  her  hand  to  sell : 
she  ought  to  make  as  good  a  bargain  as 
I  issible  with  it.  See  ;  your  clothes  and 
bread  and  butter  for  life  depend  upon 
your  manying.  That  is  the  result  of  our 
admirable  social  system.  And  mine 
also,"  he  added,  secretly,  warning  him- 
self back  from  the  precipice. 

"  I  know  that,"  simply  accepting  his 
sneer  as  truth.  "  But  I  did  not  love 
him,"  and  again  her  eyes  were  raised  to 
his. 

"  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  given 
}'0u  a  comfortable  home?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he  is  in  a  good  business — 
John  Stokes.  I  should  have  lived  in  an 
elegant  cottage  and  been  dressed  very 
nicely.     But  he  was  nothing  to  me." 

Dour  balanced  himself  against  a 
fallen  log,  looking  with  keen,  not  unten- 
der,  speculation  into  her  silly  face. 
"  And  yet  you  have  hard  lines  down 
there,  Gerty  ?  Eleven  of  you  ?  Little 
to  eat  and  less  to  wear  ?  Don't  be  an- 
gry, child  ;  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  you, 
God  knows." 

"  It  is  a  poor  home.  We  are  tired 
and  overworked — all  of  us,"  with  some 
spirit.  "  But  I  love  them  all  there.  I  will 
not  marry  a  man  whom  I  do  not  love." 

There  was  nothing  very  new  or  mag- 
nanimous in  Gerty's  words,  but  they 
struck  Dour  as  a  lofty  strain  of  music 
belonging  to  a  life  higher  than  the  one 
he  had  chosen.  But  then  the  little  wo- 
man, witli  her  brown  hair  and  appealing 
eyes,  her  rounded,  peachy-tinted  figure. 


in  its  miserable  dress,  down  to  the  very 
feet  in  the  worn  slioes,  was  a  something 
different  from  anything  else  in  this  vul- 
gar world.  And,  beside,  he  was  en- 
raged at  John  Stokes  to  the  breaking  of 
his  head  if  he  had  been  a  fighting  man. 
As  he  was  not,  Gerty's  scorn  was  grate- 
ful to  him. 

"Catholics  can  go  into  a  nunnery 
when  they're  tired  and  lonely  ;  but  we 
Protestants  must  drag  on  at  home,  where 
we  are  not  needed.  I  am  going  to  do 
that,  to  help  with  the  work  and  the  chil- 
dren. It  will  all  come  to  an  end  some 
day,"  said  Gerty,  with  the  old,  quiet,  for- 
lorn gesture,  pushing  back  her  hair  with 
both  hands.  Dour  could  not  speak  :  he 
looked  down  at  her  in  silence.  If  he 
had  not  loved  her,  there  would  have  been 
something  terribly  pathetic  in  the  sight 
of  this  poor  little  woman,  cast  out  of 
any  rightful  place  in  the  world  because 
she  would  not  marry  for  a  home.  If  he 
had  not  loved  her,  he  would  have  used 
the  case  as  a  telling  argument  in  favor 
of  giving  to  girls  trades  or  professions  as 
well  as  boys — have  argued  that  there 
was  less  indelicacy  in  a  woman  selling 
goods  and  groceries  than  selling  herself 
for  a  livelihood.  As  it  was,  his  soul 
was  dumb  within  him. 

She  looked  up  at  him  at  last.  "  I  must 
go  now.     Good-bye,  Mr.  Dour." 

"  Good-bye,  Gerty.  Am  I  never  to 
see  you  again  .'"' 

He  meant  to  give  her  up,  then  ?  But 
she  was  too  tired  and  worn-out  for  the 
certainty  to  bring  forth  more  than  a  low 
sob.  "It  would  be  better  if  I  did  not 
see  you  again,  I  suppose.     Good-bye." 

But  he  did  not  move.  "  Will  you  give 
me  your  hand  ?" 

She  hesitated  and  then  held  it  out. 
He  clasped  it  hard  in  both  his  own, 
standing  motionless,  his  face  bent  on  the 
ground.  When  she  would  have  moved, 
he  said,  with  a  frown  :  "  Give  me  a  mo- 
ment. I  do  not  want  to  repent  here- 
after." She  looked  wonderingly  at  him, 
not  knowing  that  within  that  oddly- 
shaped,  narrow  head,  curiously  flat  a-top, 
her  future  fife  was  being  decided — his 
reason,  habits,  ambition  on  one  side,  and 
that    incomprehensible,    living    creature 


154 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


on  the  other,  who  would  not  be 
thwarted. 

Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  her  that  it 
was  her  own  fate  which  hung  uncertain 
before  his  half-shut,  calculating  eyes. 
She  did  not  move  nor  speak. 

How  hot  the  sun  glared !  Paul,  look- 
ing up  presently,  gave  a  pitying  smile 
when  he  saw  her  face.  "  Poor  Gerty  !" 
he  said,  gently. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  pity  me  !"  she 
flamed  out.  "  You  belong  to  Miss  Dun- 
das.     You  mean  to  marry  Honora  !" 

"  I  did  mean  to  marry  her,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  Hush,  child.  Do  not  talk  to 
me.  I  am  trying  to  do  what  is  best  for 
you  and  me  both."  He  left  her  and 
walked  uneasily  down  the  road  :  then, 
coming  abruptly  back,  he  said,  with  more 
passion  and  fire  than  his  meagre,  thin 
lips  seemed  capable  of  expressing  :  "  I 
think  you  have  no  right  to  doubt  me.  I 
mean  to  give  up  this  great  chance  of  my 
life  because  I  love  you,  Gerty.  I  mean 
to  marry  you.  You  ivill  marry  me  .?" 
remembering  that  he  had  not  asked 
her. 

Gerty  had  often  planned  her  coy,  re- 
luctant consent,  but  now  she  said  :  "  Oh, 
yes,  Paul,"  meekly  enough,  and  then  fell 
into  an  ignominious  sobbing,  with  joy  as 
sharp  as  pain. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  crying  for, 
child  ?"  sitting  down  and  taking  her 
in  his  arms,  and  for  a  moment  forgetful 
of  anything  but  the  womanly  beauty  and 
softness  and  tenderness  with  which  he 
meant  to  fill  up  his  life.  The  distant 
sight  of  the  gallows-like  derricks  over 
her  shoulder  put  him  in  mind,  however, 
of  all  which  he  had  given  up  for  this 
beauty  and  softness. 

"  Of  course,"  releasing  her,  "  I  must 
turn  my  back  on  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try. There's  no  chance  for  me  now 
here." 

"  Shall  we  go  home  now  ?"  timidly. 
"  I'd  hke  to  tell  mother  and  ask  her 
blessing." 

"  Oh,  time  enough  for  blessings,  dear. 
I  was  going  to  explain  to  you,  Gerty, 
tliat  having  lost  this  chance,  I  have  noth- 
ing tangible  to  take  hold  of  If  you'll  look 
over  this  book" — puUing  out  a  leather- 


covered  pass-book — "  here  are  my  last 
year's  expenses  put  down  to  a  cent. 
Just  run  them  up.  What,  with  teaching 
for  six  months  and  five  magazine  papers, 
I  covered  them.  You  see,  just  covered 
them." 

"  Dear  Paul,  if  you  were  a  beggar,  in 
the  worst  of  rags  and  tags,  I  would  love 
you  just  as  well,"  energetically,  patting 
one  of  his  hands  between  her  own. 

"  Oh,  I've  no  doubt.  But  love  don't 
pay  board-bills,  darling  Gerty,"  looking 
impatiently  over  her  head. 

She  had  no  conception  of  the  sacri- 
fice he  had  made  !     None  whatever  ! 

"  What  I  wished  to  say  to  you  was, 
that  it  must  be  a  long  time,  perhaps,  be- 
fore I  could  claim  you  as  mine.  I'll  go 
West.  I'll  make  a  comfortable  home  for 
you  before  I  ask  you  to  share  my  lot." 

"  I  would  live  in  a  hovel,"  whispered 
Gerty,  trying  to  make  amends,  for  she 
had  a  vague  consciousness  that  she  had 
been  found  lacking  in  some  appreciation 
of  her  lover's  perfections. 

"It  will  not  be  necessary  for  us  to 
live  in  a  hovel,  Gertrude.  Very  good 
land  can  be  pre-empted  in  Kansas,  and  a 
snug  house  built  for  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars.  We'll  try  Kansas.  It  will  need 
but  a  few  dollars  to  set  us  up  in  kitchen 
ware.  We  will  go  to  your  mother  novT 
for  our  blessing,"  with  an  indulgent 
smile  down  at  her. 

"  I've  no  doubt  mother  would  divide 
the  parlor  things  with  us.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  have  only  a  kitchen.  Though  I 
suppose  we  would  not  have  many  callers 
in  Kansas,"  said  Gerty,  wistfully. 

Paul  stopped — held  her  oif  at  arm's 
length,  and  laughed  nervously,  as  this 
woman  never  could  have  laughed.  "  What 
a  baby  you  are  !"  he  said.  "  Kiss  me, 
Gerty  ;"  and  then  strained  her  to  him 
passionately.  He  had  made  his  choice : 
he  must  make  the  best  of  it.  They 
walked  on  in  silence  :  he  paused  again  : 
turned  her  round,  facing  him  :  "  You  do 
not  doubt  my  love,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  No,  Paul." 

"  Never  doubt  it.  It  is  real,"  with 
one  forefinger  on  his  shirt  front.  "  I 
have  sacrificed  much  to  it.  It  is  a  won- 
derful study.      It  is  not  you  who  are  in 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


155 


my  heart,  as  the  vulgar  phrase  it."  After 
a  meditative  pause :  "It  is  a  foreign 
element  within.  Underlj'ing  and  antago- 
nistic to  the  ego.  You  merely  called  it 
into  action.  There  is  no  limit  to  the 
heights  of  heroism  and  self-abnegation 
to  which  it  may  lead.  Difterent  triumphs 
from  those  achieved  by  money." 

"  I  thought  you  considered  money  a 
very  good  thing  ?"  said  Gerty,  anxiously. 

'» There  are  two  sides  to  every  great 
truth,"  said  Dour,  snappishly.  "Money 
helps  me  to  develop  my  inner  self,  and 
is  good.  But  if  love  and  poverty  de- 
velop it  also  and  lift  me  higher,  they 
are  iDetter." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Gerty.  So  as  they  walked 
along  she  leaned  on  his  arm  and  looked 
up  in  his  face,  and  Dour  felt  the  develop- 
ment of  his  inner  self  a  very  pleasant 
process,  although  the  oil-wells  lay  be- 
hind. 

"  Young  man  ! — Mr.  Dour  !  Halt ! — 
a  word  with  you,  if  you  please  !"  Dour 
stopped  with  a  guilty  start  as  the  well- 
known  large  figure  in  gray  came  out  of  a 
by-lane  and  beckoned  him  toward  her 
with  her  staff.  She  nodded  kindly  to 
Gerty  with  a  glance  at  her  flushed,  tear- 
stained  face.  "Stay  where  you  are, 
child.  My  business  is  with  this  lad. 
If  the  girl's  mother  is  unfit  to  take  care 
of  her,  I  will  take  her  place,"  lowering 
her  voice  when  Dour  came  up  :  "  What 
is  that  young  woman  to  you,  sir  ?" 

"  My  friend." 

«  Tut !  tut !"  with  disgust.  "  You  are 
too  sensible  a  man  to  prate  of  friendship 
with  a  young,  attractive  woman  at  your 
age.  She  must  be  something  more  to  you 
or  nothing.  Stop  !"  when  he  would  have 
spoken.  "  I  have  watched  your  course 
with  Gerty.  I  had  a  plan  that  you 
should  marry  her.  It  is  perhaps  my 
habit  to  lay  plans  for  others,"  with  a 
half  smile.  "  She  is  a  good  girl  and  a 
pretty  girl,  and  for  her  father's  sake  I 
mean  that  she  shall  not  go  penniless  to 
her  husband.  I  thought  that  you  would 
be  a  very  proper  husband  for  her,  though 
you  have  your  faults.  You  need  train- 
ing. But  I  will  not  have  her  trifled 
with.  There  must  be  no  more  strolling 
through  mountain  lanes.    I  will  not  have 


her  name  or  her  affections  tampered 
with." 

A  proper  husband  for  Gerty  ?  Verily 
here  was  an  end  to  his  vision  !  "  Miss 
Rattlin  is  my  affianced  wife,"  said  Dour, 
with  a  distant  bow,  making  the  best 
of  it. 

"  Eh  ?  How  !  I  think  well  of  you, 
Dour,"  striking  her  stick  unto  the  ground. 
"  Come,  give  me  your  hand,  little  one. 
You  are  an  honester  fellow  than  I  thought 
you,  sir.  I  tell  you,  candidly,  I  had  my 
eye  on  you.  If  you  had  given  this  little 
girl  the  go-by,  you  would  have  left  my 
house  as  penniless  as  you  came  into  it. 
But  from  to-morrow  I  appoint  you  my 
overseer  —  secretary — what  you  please. 
We'll  not  quarrel  about  names.  But 
you  shall  have  plenty  to  do,  and  no 
cause  to  complain  of  your  salary.  I 
give  it  to  you  for  Gerty's  sake.  Mind 
that.  I'll  give  the  child  an  outfit  myself 
Now,  off  with  you  both,  and  talk  it 
over." 

"  Why,  she  did  not  want  you  to  marry 
Honora  after  all,"  said  Gerty,  glancing 
up  shrewdly  under  her  curly  lashes. 

"  It  appears  not."  He  did  not  speak 
for  a  long  time,  and  then  stooped  and 
kissed  her  heartily.  Gerty  knew  that  in 
the  kiss  he  accepted  her  and  the  situation 
for  ever. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Slow  spring  :  slow  summer  ;  and  at 
last — November. 

Honora,  absorbed  with  the  one  thought 
which  possessed  her  whole  being  by  this 
time  (because  of  her  anxiety  for  her  un- 
cle, she  told  herself),  keeping  up  her  in- 
cessant watch  for  a  gray-coated  figure 
coming  over  the  hills,  who  was  to  deliver 
him  from  impending  ruin,  could  not  see 
that  Lizzy  too  grew  uneasy  and  restless, 
until  one  day,  when  Elizabeth,  grown 
desperate  for  the  want  of  definite 
knowledge  about  Dallas,  attacked  Mr. 
Galbraith  in  the  library  while  Honora 
was  within  hearing. 

"There  was  a  man  from  the  Indian 


156 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


Queen,  sir,  who  went  with  Dr.  Pritchard 
on  his  expedition.  He  promised  he 
would  return  in  a  year.  Can  he  do  it  ? 
We  do  not  know  about  the  railroads 
down  there." 

"  It  is  most  unlikely  that  he  could 
do  it,  or  that  he  will,"  with  an  unwonted 
impatience  in  his  tone.  "  If  his  work 
suits  him,  it  is  more  probable  that  he 
will  return  after  three  years  than  one." 
After  Lizzy  left  the  room,  he  looked  up 
and  saw  Honora  standing  by  the  win- 
dow. "  No  doubt  those  two  silly  women 
look  for  the  fellow  to  turn  his  back  upon 
his  work  and  post  from  New  Mexico  to 
report  himself,  like  Lord  Lovel,  a  year 
from  the  hour  he  set  out.  As  if  a  man 
allowed  his  life  to  hinge  on  sentimental 
promises  like  a  school-girl !" 

"  But  he  will  come,"  said  Miss  Dun- 
das  to  herself  On  Wednesday  of  the 
next  week  the  year  would  be  over.  She 
fancied  Dallas  returning ;  counting  the 
hours  as  she  was  doing,  taking  out  the 
flower  which  doubtless  he  carried  with 
him  constantly,  feeling  that  its  faint  per- 
fume brought  him  close  to  home  and — 
to  her. 

Madam  Galbraith  had  by  chance  fixed 
upon  that  very  day  for  the  celebration  at 
once  of  Gerty's  wedding  and  of  the  suc- 
cess of  her  colony.  She  chose  that  the 
little  girl  should  be  married  from  the 
Galbraith  house,  and  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood was  bidden  to  rejoice  with  her. 
The  town  also  was  to  hold  a  holiday. 
There  was  to  be  a  dinner  for  the  work- 
men from  the  wells  and  mills  (all  of 
which  were  in  full  operation),  and  at 
night  a  dance  in  the  town-hall  and  a 
public  meeting  outside.  She  scattered 
her  money  like  an  Irish  king :  gave  un- 
limited orders  for  feasting  and  drinking  : 
the  speechifying  and  the  praise  of  Han- 
nah Dour  necessarily  would  follow  ;  and 
whether  it  came  from  her  equals  or  from 
Dutch  or  Irish  laborers,  praise  was 
sweet  in  her  nostrils.  "  It  is  not  only 
tlie  happiness  of  the  little  girl's  life  I 
want  to  commemorate,"  she  said  to  her 
husband,  "but  the  success  of  mine.  I 
have  done  a  great  work  for  Humanity.  I 
have  scored  my  name  deep.  It  wiU  last 
as  Ions:  as  the  land  endures." 


The  day  came. 

The  sun,  she  thought,  never  had 
flashed  over  the  mountains  and  valleys 
of  the  Dour  lands  with  such  victorious 
splendor.  Surely  God  saw  a  great  work 
done  and  approved  it — set  his  seal  upon 
her  as  one  of  the  leading  spirits  of  the 
age.  The  petty,  joyous  excitement  in 
the  house  jarred  upon  her.  She  ordered 
her  carriage  and  prepared  to  drive  down 
to  the  colony,  feasting  her  eyes,  as  she 
stood  on  the  steps,  with  the  great  column 
of  smoke  rising  from  it  to  the  skies,  as 
though  it  were  a  thank-offering  to  her, 
going  up  perpetually. 

"  I  will  go  with  j-ou,"  said  Honora, 
joining  her. 

Madam  Galbraith  was  annoyed,  but 
the  girl  looked  ill  and  restless,  and  she 
did  not  refuse  her.  But  she  wanted  to 
be  alone.  Even  her  husband  was  in  her 
way  lately.  He  was  weak,  idle,  ineffi- 
cient. He  was  no  help-meet  for  her  in 
this  her  enduring  work.  She  had  no 
companion :  she  thought,  with  a  vague 
remembrance,  of  the  lion  who  was  bom 
alone. 

She  drove  in  absolute  silence — Ho- 
nora, rousing  herself  now  and  then  to 
look  at  the  stately  figure  in  its  purple 
dress  beside  her,  the  imperious,  hard 
face,  the  gray  crown  of  hair  shining  in 
the  sun,  wondering  what  welcome  she 
would  give  to  Dallas  when  he  came.  For 
to-night  he  would  be  here.  At  dusk, 
when  the  moon  rose,  he  would  come  to 
the  door  of  the  green-house  and  bid  her 
remember  that  the  year  was  over  and  he 
had  kept  his  word. 

They  reached  the  town.  It  had  grown 
rapidly  as  a  fungus.  Streets  and  lanes 
of  the  snug,  four-roomed  wooden  houses 
had  sprung  up  as  by  magic.  Madam 
Galbraith  alighted  and  walked  slowly 
through  her  dominions,  her  eye  brilliant, 
her  wide  nostrils  dilated.  If  the  black 
mills  and  great  tanks  of  oil  had  been  the 
beautiful  Utopia  of  a  dream,  her  triumph 
could  not  have  been  greater. 

"  It  is  a  noble  work  for  Humanity  !" 
she  said  to  Mr.  Rattlin,  trotting  by  her 
side. 

"Yes,  when  the  school-house  is  fin- 
ished and  a  good  teacher  secured — " 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


IS7 


"  All  in  good  time  !  Don't  begin  to 
worry,  I  beg,"  impatiently.  "  Yes,"  sur- 
veying the  crowds  surrounding  the  tables 
spread  in  the  woods,  "  I  think  I  have 
the  taculty  of  managing  men  in  masses 
— hereditary,  probably.  The  Dours  are 
of  German  descent,  accustomed  always 
to  the  control  of  large  tenantries." 

Honora's  eyes  were  dull :  she  could 
not  see  that  the  men  about  her  differed 
from  any  other  laborers,  or  understand 
how  their  two  or  three  months'  residence 
on  the  Dour  ground  had  advanced  either 
tliem  or  Humanity. 

"  I  hope  the  mills  and  oil  may  turn 
out  well,"  she  said.  "  Otherwise  it  will 
be  worse  for  these  poor  creatures,  who 
have  risked  their  all." 

Madam  Galbraith  turned  on  her. 
"  What  is  that,  Honora  ?  Do  you  think 
the  Lord  will  not  protect  a  work  for 
Him  ?  You  had  better  look  over  Gerty's 
cottage  while  I  continue  my  walk." 
Miss  Dundas  turned  gladly  enough  into 
a  pretty  little  house,  which  the  old  lady 
had  furnished  for  Dour  and  his  wife,  and 
Mr.  Rattlin  managed  to  join  her.  They 
went  from  one  room  to  another,  the  little 
man  saying  nothing,  by  which  Nora 
knew  how  full  his  heart  was.  She  did 
not  know  why  the  little  menage — meant 
for  two — the  two  easy-chairs  on  either 
side  of  the  fire,  with  their  prophetic, 
happy  meaning,  even  the  little  cooking 
utensils  and  cozy  table,  thrilled  her  with 
such  tender  warmth.  Nor  why  she 
blushed  and  started  when  Mr.  Rattlin 
spoke  to  her,  as  if  she  were  the  bride  and 
the  beloved  !  They  could  hear  the 
cheering  in  the  woods  when  Madam 
Galbraith  entered  them. 

'•  They  are  roasting  an  ox  whole  and 
two  sheep.  It  is  a  regular  barbecue," 
said  Mr.  Rattlin.  "  Gerty  will  be  very 
happy  here,  I  think  ?  You  must  come 
another  day  and  see  how  snugly  our  own 
house  looks  now.  Madam  Galbraith 
promises  positions  for  the  boys  in  the 
works  as  soon  as  they  are  of  age  to  fill 
them.  I  think  the  hard  times  are  over 
for  us  now,  Miss  Dundas." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Nora,  holding  out 
her  hand,  with  sudden  tears  in  her 
eyes. 


"  Ye.s,  it  has  been  a  long  fight,"  he  said, 
under  his  breath.  "  Shall  we  lock  up 
the  house  and  go  back  to  the  farm  ?  1 
do  not  believe  Madam  Galbraith  will 
miss  us.     Gerty  will  want  me." 

It  was  noon  before  they  reached  the 
house  again.  Gerty  was  watching  for 
her  father — ran  to  meet  him  and  hung  on 
his  arin.  As  the  time  for  her  marriage 
had  come  nearer,  she  clung  like  a  baby 
to  both  mother  and  father,  was  petulant 
with  Dour,  and  scarcely  gave  a  look  to 
the  pretty  dresses  with  which  her  ward- 
robe was  filled. 

Honora  looked  drearily  at  the  slow- 
creeping  shadows.  "  Evening  will  never 
come,  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

"It  comes  so  fast  to  me  !"  said  Gerty, 
looking  up  into  her  father's  face  and  draw- 
ing him  oflT  for  a  solitary  walk,  telling 
him  how  much  she  meant  to  do  for 
Tony  and  Joe  and  the  girls,  and  that 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  never 
to  have  married,  and  that  no  home  could 
be  as  happy  as  this  one  that  she  left. 
Mr.  Rattlin,  seeing  Dour  coming  to  find 
her,  waited  for  him  and  gave  her  over  to 
him,  trying  to  joke,  with  a  choking  in 
his  heart.  But  he  never  forgot  those 
words  of  Gerty's.  Years  afterward  the 
old  father  and  mother  used  to  talk  of 
what  it  cost  her  to  part  from  them. 
They  had  not  thought  the  child  loved 
them  so  much. 

At  any  other  time,  Nora  would  have 
been  in  the  thickest  of  the  heat  of  pre- 
paration— the  very  spur  and  life  of  it  ; 
but  now  she  went  restlessly  through  the 
halls  and  reception-rooms,  which  the 
women  were  hanging  with  evergreen 
and  flowers — into  the  state  dining-room, 
where  the  long  table  was  glittering  with 
silver  and  glass — into  the  kitchen,  where 
Peggy  Beck  and  two  other  amateurs,  with 
the  regular  cook,  held  highest  carnival  of 
all.  Everywhere  that  she  went  was 
Lizzy,  in  her  brown  dress,  her  face  hot, 
busy,  eager  and  silent  It  was  no  wed- 
ding or  success  of  a  colony  for  which 
she  prepared  :  it  was  the  coming  home 
in  triumph  of  her  boy — the  heir.  Her 
years  of  patient  waiting  were  over.  He 
had  conquered  a  name  and  was  coming 
to  take  his  rightful   place.     There  was 


158 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


not  a  flower  she  plucked  or  a  dish  she 
cooked  which  was  not  meant  to  take  its 
part  in  doing  him  honor.  Perhaps  the 
dishes  filled  a  larger  part  than  the  flow- 
ers in  her  mind  ;  for  Lizzy  had  grown 
more  and  more  into  the  housekeeper's 
mould. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  come 
down  to  flavor  the  creams,  Honora.  No 
one  can  do  that  like  you.  Did  you  see 
the  tables  ?  There  will  be  a  light  colla- 
tion and  a  hot  supper  afterward.  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  left  it  all  to  me.  What 
with  flowers  and  confectionery  and 
colored  ices,  the  table  will  look  like 
fairies'  work.  What  do  you  think  of 
the  supper-rooms  ?  I  want  to  make  the 
house  an  utter  contrast  to  the  dreariness 
out  of  doors,  to  please — the  bride." 

"  I'll  see  if  those  creams  are  right," 
said  Honora.  There  was  no  reason 
why  she  should  shut  herself  out  from  life 
and  its  business  because  a  man  was 
coming  home  who  most  probably  cared 
nothing  for  her.  She  stopped,  too,  to 
give  her  opinion  with  regard  to  the  stuff"- 
ing  of  the  turkeys,  at  which  Peggy 
laughed  when  she  had  gone. 

Then  she  went  up  again  to  the  library, 
where  her  uncle  was  pacing  to  and  fro, 
as  if  he,  too,  waited  and  watched.  Ho- 
nora looked  out  of  the  window.  What 
if  a  storm  should  come  ?  But  Dallas 
would  not  heed  a  storm,  and  the  sky 
was  cloudless.  Her  uncle  did  not  no- 
tice her.  He  had  brought  in  that  pretty 
curly-headed  boy  of  Peggy  Beck's,  and 
seated  him  with  a  picture-book,  and 
then  forgotten  him.  He  had  made  a  pet 
of  the  child  lately.  She  wondered  if,  in 
this  turmoil  and  rejoicing,  his  thoughts 
had  not  wandered  away  to  his  own  dead 
son,  who  never  would  wake  to  merry- 
making or  love  again.  If  he  only  knew 
that  Tom's  boy  was  near  at  hand — com- 
ing to  him  to-night ! 

The  day  lagged,  slower  and  slower,  as 
evening  approached.  The  house,  the 
people  about  her,  passed  before  her 
feverish,  exaggerating  senses  as  pictures 
in  a  vivid  dream.  She  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Dallas'  mother  from  time  to  time  as 
she  passed  her  room — a  room  in  which 
tliere  was  perfect  quiet     She  lay  on  a 


lounge  before  the  clear,  red  fire,  turning 
over  the  crisp  pages  of  a  freshly-cut 
book.  Whatever  storm  of  joy  or  sor- 
row might  rage  about  her,  Mrs.  Duffield 
remained,  like  Gideon's  fleece,  miracu- 
lously dry  and  white  and  cool. 

Evening  was  here  at  last.  To  Ho- 
nora a  strange  hush,  a  waiting  pause, 
seemed  to  have  fallen  on  the  great  house 
and  the  darkening  landscape  without, 
though  it  was  only,  in  fact,  that  lonely 
silence  which  precedes  dusk  in  solitary 
mountain  countries.  Yet  even  when, 
later,  the  house  was  lighted,  so  that  it 
shone  like  a  beacon  over  the  hills,  and 
filled  with  guests,  the  laughter  and  crowd 
and  music  seemed  to  her  but  a  prelude 
for  that  which  was  to  follow.  She  had 
been  foolish  in  her  prophecy  of  ruin  :  it 
was  a  great  inheritance  to  which  Dallas 
came  home  to-night. 

Gerty  was  married.  The  plump  little 
body  wore  tulle,  which  moss  roses  caught 
and  drew  back  from  her  white  neck  and 
arms,  and  Mr.  Dour  stood  there,  sallow  and 
black-coated,  beside  her.  Rosy  and  Mrs. 
Rattlin,  who  sat  sobbing  in  the  big  arm- 
chair, with  half  of  the  Rattlins  quartered 
on  her  lap,  thought  there  never  had  been 
such  a  pageant  before  ;  but  the  little 
cricket  of  a  preacher  who  married  them, 
standing  on  his  tip-toes,  leaning  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  his  voice  choking  as  he 
talked,  carried  his  child's  life  to  the  very 
feet  of  God,  with  every  word  he  spoke 
struggling  for  a  blessing  upon  it. 

But  to  the  rest  of  the  guests  the  com- 
monplace little  girl  and  her  marriage 
were  secondary  affairs.  Everybody  knew 
that  the  wedding  was  but  an,  opportunity 
to  celebrate  Madam  Galbraith's  success 
and  chant  paeans  thereon.  She  knew  it 
herself:  her  very  dress  unconsciously 
asserted  triumph — the  clinging  purple 
velvet  showed  the  grand  poise  and  mo- 
tion of  her  Hmbs.  In  her  very  coarse- 
ness and  rugged  strength  she  seemed 
better  fitted  to  be  the  product  and  expo- 
nent of  the  land  she  meant  to  develop. 
Her  old  friends,  perhaps,  missed  some- 
thing of  the  old  heartiness  in  her  wel- 
come: it  was  an  ovation  to  which  they 
had  come,  rather  than  a  feast. 

The  supper- rooms  were  open,  though 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


159 


Lizzy  had  delayed  until  the  appointed 
hour  was  past.  Honora  met  her  wan- 
dering uneasily  through  the  corridors, 
but  hurried  on  without  a  word.  It  was 
her  first  chance  of  escape.  The  broad 
hall  was  darkened.  At  the  far  end  there 
was  a  window  and  balcony  without, 
which  commanded  an  outlook  over  the 
Dour  lands  for  miles.  At  the  other  end, 
the  open  door  framed  the  wide,  brilliant 
room,  the  flowers  and  feast,  and  the  lion- 
headed  old  woman  who  made  the  centre 
of  the  picture.  There  was  a  man  stand- 
ing on  the  dark  balcony  when  Honora 
went  out.  It  was  her  uncle,  who  made 
room  for  her  silentl}'.  Who  could  lie 
wait  for  ?  She  forgot  that  he  was  there, 
however,  in  her  eager  scrutiny  of  the 
dim  slopes  and  winding  road.  But  no 
gray-coated  figure  coming  over  the  hills 
rewarded  her. 

It  was  a  dark  night :  the  moon  was 
obscured  by  a  wet,  ash-colored  mist  that 
covered  the  heavens,  the  wind  soughed 
shrilly  through  the  far  defile  of  the 
mountain  with  a  melancholy,  foreboding 
wail.  They  stood  silent  side  by  side. 
It  was  long  past  the  hour  when  Dal- 
las should  have  come.  She  could  see 
the  door  of  the  greenhouse  which  she 
had  set  open  and  the  ray  of  light  stream- 
ing out  through  the  dark  orchard — all  in 
vain. 

If  he  were  living,  he  would  have  kept 
his  word.  She  pictured  him  lying  dead 
in  the  long,  rank  grass  of  the  Plains. 
Dead! 

"  It  grows  late,"  said  her  uncle,  turn- 
ing in,  she  fancied,  with  a  sigh. 

Colonel  Pervis  stepped  up  behind 
them  :  "  Where  have  you  been  in  hiding, 
Mr.  Galbraith  ?"  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "  I  just  rode  up  from  the 
wells.  They  are  holding  a  regular  car- 
nival there  —  have  adjourned  to  the 
woods  to  hold  the  meeting,  and  kindled 
fires  of  pine-knots  on  tripods.  It  is  not 
often  a  woman  can  reap  such  success 
from  her  work,  \yhat  is  that  singular 
light  ?  There,  down  by  the  river.  It 
changes  place." 

"  I  see  nothing." 

"  A  dull,  red  point  in  the  fog.  Too 
low  for  the  moon.     Ah  !   I  perceive  that 


they  are  about  to  drink  Madam  Gal- 
braith's  health  within  there  !" 

Mr.  Galbraith  turned  and  through  the 
glittering  vista  saw  his  wife's  swarthy, 
powerful  face  kindled  with  a  flush  such 
as  he  never  had  known  there  before. 
She  stood  up  and  bowed  silently  over 
the  glass  which  she  held  to  her  old 
neighbors  and  friends.  She  did  not 
miss  her  husband  in  this  crowning  mo- 
ment of  triumph,  or  look  for  him  to  share 
in  it.  Yet  if  the  consciousness  of  the 
diflTerence  in  wealth  between  them,  which 
day  by  day  had  put  her  farther  from  him, 
gave  him  any  fierce  pang,  there  was  no 
sign  of  it  in  his  mild,  observant  face. 

The  red,  luminous  point  in  the  far 
river  fog  kindled  and  shot  up  into  the 
sky  a  swift  stream  of  light  which  broke 
into  a  shower  of  starry  sparks.  Colonel 
Pervis  hastily  crossed  the  hall.  "  They 
send  you  greeting  from  the  colony,  Ma- 
dam Galbraith,"  he  said.  "  They  have 
signal  rockets.  Will  you  look  at  them  ? 
The  effect  is  wonderfully  fine  in  the 
mist." 

She  rose,  followed  by  most  of  the 
guests.  She  was  greedy  of  every  token 
of  homage  to-night.  "  That  was  well 
done — well  done,"  she  said,  smiling,  as 
she  swept  through  the  darkened  passage. 

As  she  looked  toward  the  Avindow, 
the  western  sky  burst  into  a  horror  of 
flame. 

"  Keep  her  back  !  For  God's  sake, 
keep  her  back  !"  cried  Colonel  Pervis. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  ;  and 
then,  in  the  distance,  a  low  foreboding 
roar,  as  the  winds  from  the  defiles  of 
the  mountains  rushed  in  to  fill  a  sudden 
vacuum.  Her  husband  drew  her  gently 
away. 

"  The  oil-wells  are  on  fire  !"  he  said  : 
"  May  God  have  mercy  on  the  women 
and  children  to-night !" 

Fire  !  All  through  the  long  night  the 
valley  to  the  river  gaped  open  in  the 
darkness,  a  bed  of  seething,  surging 
flames.  Madam  Galbraith  alone,  on  the 
balcony  of  the  house,  set  like  a  watch- 
tower  far  up  the  mountain,  looked  stead- 
ily down  at  the  end  of  her  work.  Her 
friends  had  forgotten  her  in  this  hour  of 


i6o 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


terror.  She  saw  Honora  hurry  to  her 
uncle's  side  as  he  headed  the  men  and 
set  off  hastily  through  the  night.  Mrs. 
Duffield  calmly  bade  farewell  to  the  last 
guest,  then  changed  her  dress,  and  sum- 
moning Lizzy  and  the  servants,  quieted 
them  with  a  look.  "  There  will  be  lives 
lost  yonder,"  she  said,  "  and  there  is  no 
place  for  those  poor  wretches  but  this 
house.  It  must  be  made  fit  to  receive 
them."  She  worked  quietly  all  night, 
and  the  first  wounded  man  that  was 
brought  in  was  laid  on  her  own  bed. 

Madam  Galbraith  heard  through  the 
night,  from  time  to  time,  the  slow  tread 
of  men  carrying  a  body  into  the  house, 
and  the  rush  and  whispers  of  the  women 
as  they  received  it :  even  the  silly  little 
bride  was  at  work  among  them.  But  she 
had  no  help  to  give.  She  shut  the  door 
behind  her.  She  must  be  alone  to  see 
the  end  of  her  work. 

From  its  first  centre  the  fire  went 
creeping,  creeping,  in  rills,  in  pools  of 
bloody  heat  reflected  bloodily  from  the 
sky.  Pillars  of  flame  of  a  ghastly  green- 
ish hue  rose  where  solitary  wells  burned 
and  threw  a  spectral  light  out  to  the 
very  horizon,  where  the  mountains  circled 
in  their  awful  shadow,  silent  and  solemn 
spectators.  She  fancied  they  knew  how 
poor  and  mean  her  work  had  been.  For 
the  light  laid  bare  the  little  settlement 
Hke  a  mere  fleck  on  the  vast  landscape : 
a  paltry  thing  seen  far  off  and  in  the 
glare  of  the  devouring  tide  that  had  been 
sent  to  sweep  it  away  :  the  great  derricks 
and  tanks  stood  for  a  moment  bars  of 
shadows  like  black  straws  before  the 
flame  and  then  vanished :  the  shed-roofs 
of  the  mills  crisped  and  crackled,  as 
though  made  of  paper,  in  the  first  sweep 
of  the  terrible  flood,  disappearing  in  the 
shower  of  fiery  seed  that  sowed  destruc- 
tion in  far-off  fields.  For  wherever  they 
fell,  the  ground,  saturated  with  oil,  slowly 
smouldered  and  sent  forth  its  tiny,  creep- 
ing stream  of  fire.  The  very  Dour  land 
had  turned  against  her  to  burn  out  her 
name,  which  she  would  have  v/ritten 
upon  it. 

She  was  too  far  removed  for  even  the 
roar  of  destruction  to  reach  her,  and  the 
meaning  of  the  scene  stood  out  in  fiercer 


characters  against  the  intense  silence. 
She  thought  that  the  Hand  tliat  traced 
upon  the  wall  the  fate  of  the  idolatrous 
king  wrote  her  ruin  on  her  own  land  in 
these  letters  of  fire. 

If,  in  her  old  age,  she  had  set  aside 
the  simple  duties  of  home  to  make  her- 
self a  name  ;  if  she  had  driven  out  the 
love  of  husband  and  friends  from  her 
heart,  and  given  it  up  to  a  hard,  inexor- 
able power,  which  she  called  the  love  of 
humanity  and  of  God,  God  himself 
brought  her  to-night  to  sudden  and  ter- 
rible reckoning. 

As  the  night  passed  the  fog  deepened, 
but  the  horrible  gulch  of  heat  and  light 
through  its  centre  assumed  new  and  fan- 
tastic forms  in  the  slow,  silent  fury,  open- 
ing vexed  depth  after  depth,  as  though 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  of  hell 
were  to  be  bared  at  last.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  dark  mass  where  the  town 
had  stood,  and  about  which  the  crowd 
swarmed,  looking  like  black  ants  in  the 
glare.  Then  they  disappeared.  The 
fire  had  touched  the  loaded  rafts  that  lay 
along  the  shore,  and  in  a  moment  the 
river,  covered  with  oil,  was  a  winding 
stream  of  flame,  and  cut  its  way  through 
the  darkness  to  the  far  horizon. 

No  trace  of  her  work  was  left.  It 
had  all  gone  down  into  the  night  and 
silence.  The  very  springs,  which  were 
to  have  been  the  life-blood  of  her 
schemes,  were  ebbing  to  feed  the  fire 
that  had  defeated  her.  Over  all,  the 
stench  and  soggy,  sulphurous  clouds 
drifted  and  settled  slowly  and  heavily. 

The  damp  north  wind  gave  sign  of 
morning  ;  a  sickly  light  struggled  up  the 
east ;  the  flames  paled  before  it,  but  did 
not  lose  in  strength  or  volume. 

Madam  Galbraith  went  out  into  the 
hall.  Lizzy  met  her  and  stopped,  not 
saying  a  word,  when  she  saw  what  one 
night  had  done  :  it  was  an  old,  broken, 
feeble  woman  who  stood  before  her. 
Hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  she  put 
both  her  hands  pityingly  on  the  gray 
hair,  wet  with  the  night  dews.  Her 
sober  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  The  old 
lady  rested  one  heavy  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Yes,    child— yes.     The    men    you 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


i6i 


brought  liere  last  niglit — were  they — 
\vere  they — " 

"  No,  not  dead.  There  are  no  hves 
lost,  but  many  wounded.  But — all  is 
gone,  madam." 

"  He  has  not  laid  the  charge  of  mur- 
der on  my  soul,"  she  muttered. 

"  Take  heart,"  said  Lizzy,  hotly. 
"You  purposed  a  noble  work.  You  shall 
not  reproach  yourself  with  an  accident." 

•'  You  talk  like  a  child.  There's  no 
such  thing  as  accident,"  with  a  touch  of 
her  old  asperity.  But  that  momentary 
flash  in  the  gray  embers  died  down. 
She  stood  motionless,  looking  about  her 
with  dull,  aimless  eyes. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  to  my  own  room  and 
sleep,"  she  said,  and  sat  down  heavily 
as  she  spoke.  The  incertitude  and  use- 
lessness  of  old  age  seemed  to  have 
fallen  upon  her.  Honora  came  up  the 
hall,  and,  running  to  her  when  she  saw 
her,  put  her  strong  litde  arm  about  her. 
The  girl's  countenance  was  pinched,  but 
strong,  new  meanings  had  come  into  it. 
She  looked  at  Madam  Galbraith.  and 
then  at  Lizzy : 

■'  I  will  take  her  among  the  people. 
That  is  best  for  her." 

She  led  her  passively  down  the  great 
staircase  and  suddenly  out  into  the 
court,  crowded  with  outcasts — a  mass  of 
miserable,  sooty,  half-clothed  men  and 
women,  who  were  thronging  up  the  hall 
and  into  the  barns  and  out-houses,  car- 
r}-ing  their  children  and  the  wretched, 
greasy  beds,  quilts,  clothing — poor  bits 
of  debris — they  had  saved  from  the 
wreck.  Overhead  the  pale  dawn  bright- 
ened slowly,  hesitating  before  it  unveiled 
the  full  desolation,  the  unclean  ruin  of 
that  night. 

Her  husband,  Mr.  Rattlin  and  Dour, 
their  clothes  torn  and  blackened  with  the 
night's  work,  hurried  toward  her :  she, 
standing  on  the  dirty  stones  of  the  court- 
yard in  her  royal  purple  and  rich  lace, 
seemed  to  curiously  belong  to  a  different 
life  from  them  all.  She  did  not  reply  to 
them  when  they  spoke  to  her  again  and 
again  ;  but  Honora  saw  that  the  vigor 
and  incisive  insight  was  coming  back 
into  her  hawk-eye.  Her  jaws  were 
stiffening  into  their  accustomed  stern 
11 


set.  She  looked  at  the  little  preacher 
suddenly  : 

"  Your  house  is  gone,  sir  ?  Your  oc- 
cupation's gone  ?  Just  as  life  was  be- 
ginning to  clear  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  house  is  gone.  But.  thank 
God,"  rubbing  his  hands,  "the  children 
were  here  with  their  mother ;  and  I 
saved  Jenny,  too  ;  though  I  ought  not 
to  think  of  a  beast  in  the  face  of  such 
suffering  as  this." 

"And  this  was  your  wedding  night?" 
turning  sharply  on  Dour.  "  Your  chance 
of  fortune  is  lost — " 

The  young  man  put  his  hand  gently 
on  her  withered  fingers.  "  Gerty  and  I 
are  young.  There's  a  long  life  before 
us." 

"Yes — yes."  slowly.  "James,  I  have 
a  word  to  say  to  these  people.  Call 
them."  Mr.  Galbraith  beckoned,  and  in 
a  moment  the  crowd  had  turned  and  be- 
gan to  gather  into  the  court-yard.  She 
went  forward  slowly,  her  full  strength 
coming  back  to  her,  apparently,  as  she 
noted  shrewdly  every  miserable,  discon- 
tented face.  A  level  ray  of  morning 
light  fell  full  on  the  commanding  figure 
and  the  silvery  hair ;  but  a  subtle  loss 
and  defeat  in  her  face  rebelled  against 
her  old  air  of  command,  and  gave  it  the 
lie. 

"  My  friends  —  back,  back  ;  don't 
crowd  on  me :  I  have  difficulty  in  find- 
ing breath — my  friends,  this  has  been  a 
hard  night  for  you.  I  know  that  all  you 
had  you  put  into  my  venture.  You  shall 
not  lose  it.  I  think  there  was  a  Jonah 
in  the  boat,  or  it  would  not  have  gone 
down.  God  knows  the  secret  thoughts 
of  us  all.  He  knows  who  was  false  to 
his  duty.  It  is  right  the  punishm.ent 
should  fall  where  it  is  due.  I  wish  to 
say  to  you  that  it  is  my  intention  to  fulfill 
my  promises  to  you,  whether  oral  of 
written,  to  the  last  farthing.  I  gave  my 
word  that  your  capital  should  be  forth- 
coming, whether  the  experiment  suc- 
ceeded or  not.  You  were  to  lose  noth- 
ing.    I  renew  the  promise  now — " 

"  Madam  Galbraith — " 

<•  Stand  back,  Colonel  Pervis  !  My 
friends — " 

"  This  is  sheer  madness,"  laving  his 


1 62 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


hand  on  her  arm.  "  These  people  have 
no  legal  claim  upon  you.  Give  them 
what  you  will  out  of  your  charity,  but 
you  shall  not  beggar  yourself  with  any 
such  Quixotic  promise  while  I  stand  by. 
The  law  will  not  hold  you  bound  by 
mere  verbal  engagements  which  you  may 
have  made." 

»  It  is  my  wordih^X  you  scoff  at.  I 
pledged  it  to  these  people.  What  is  the 
law  to  me  ?"  Her  voice  was  unnaturally 
gentle,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  were 
dangerous.  Pervis  drew  back.  "You 
forget  yourself,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"  My  old  friend,"  turning  coolly  to  the 
people,  "underrates,  probably,  my  re- 
sources. You  shall  be  fully  repaid.  You 
shall  have  what  temporary  shelter  and 
aid  we  can  give  ;  and  as  your  claims  are 
made  out,  present  them.  They'll  be 
verified  to  the  last  shilling,  however," 
sharply;  "  I'll  have  no  cheating.  Remem- 
ber that." 

She  waved  her  hand,  dismissing  them. 
Beck,  who  had  stood  closest  and  most 
eager,  threw  up  his  hat  as  she  moved 
back,  giving  a  hearty  American  cheer. 

But  the  majority  of  her  hearers,  from 
lack  of  comprehension  of  the  language 
or  disheartened  with  the  night's  horror, 
scarcely  understood  her  meaning,  and 
began  to  gather  up  their  loads  again, 
apathetically. 

Colonel  Pervis,  his  bluff  face  red, 
stood  in  her  way :  "  It  is  not  yet  too 
late.  You  must  hear  me.  You  do  not 
know  how  far  your  estate  is  involved, 
Madam  Galbraith.  You  cannot  fulfill 
this  engagement  you  have  made.  The 
sale  of  the  homestead  farm,  even,  and 
the  house  itself,  will  not  suffice." 

"  Has  it  come  to  that  1  The  sale  of 
this  farm?  Do  you  mean  that  I  must 
alienate  the  Dour  land  ?" 

"  If  you  keep  your  promise,  you  leave 
yourself  not  six  feet  of  ground  in  which 
to  make  your  grave,  and  then  it  will  not 
be  enough." 

"  Alienate  the  Dour  land  ?  And  for 
such  a  rabble  as  that  ?"  She  stood  a 
morrecit  while  they  waited  about  her  : 
once  or  twice  she  looked  into  her  hus- 
band's face,  as  if  for  counsel.  But  he 
gave  none. 


She  looked  up,  slowly  scanning  the 
wide  sweep  of  valley  and  mountain,  over 
which  the  rising  sun  threw  steady  light 
and  broad  shadows.  There  was  not  a 
far-off  peak,  a  misty  water-course,  a 
green  pasture,  which  she  did  not  note. 
Never,  even  to  the  alien  eyes  about  her, 
had  her  heritage  seemed  so  fair.  Then, 
standing  in  the  court-yard,  she  glanced 
up  at  the  massive,  mossy  walls  of  the 
homestead. 

"  I  will  keep  my  promise.    Let  it  go." 

Honora  broke  into  a  low,  exhausted 
weeping  and  crept  away,  but  the  old  wo- 
man's wrinkled  face,  though  bloodless, 
did  not  flinch.  They  all  stood  apart 
from  her,  until  she  turned  and  looked 
into  her  husband's  face  : 

"  James  ?" 

"  You  did  right,  Hannah." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
leaning  on  him,  he  led  her  into  the 
house.  It  was  a  sight  which  even  their 
old  friend  Pervis  had  never  seen  before  : 
they  usually  walked  side  by  side,  but 
apart. 

"  I  am  a  beggar,"  she  said,  when  they 
stood  alone  in  the  great  doorway. 

There  was  a  new  expression  on  his 
thin  face.  "Then,  my  wife,  there  is 
nothing  between  us  now,"  he  answered, 
looking  down  at  her. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

The  mountains  threw  their  great 
melancholy  evening  shadows  over  the 
dreary  landscape  :  here  and  there,  where 
wells  stood  apart,  the  fires  burned  unap- 
peased,  continuous  volumes  of  foul  smoke 
drifting  away  east,  west,  north,  south  to 
bear  tidings  of  disaster. 

Mrs.  Duffield,  who  had  been  looking 
gravely  from  the  hbrary  window,  closed 
the  curtains  and  turned  to  meet  Colonel 
Pervis.  "  The  new  expression  of  wretch- 
edness on  the  grand  face  of  this  land- 
scape is  curiously  out  of  keeping,"  she 
said.  "  Have  you  succeeded.  Colonel 
Pervis?" 

"  Yes.     I  have  found  shelter  for  the 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


163 


majority  of  the  people  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  I  have  made,  also,  a  rapid 
rdsunit?  of  Madam  Galbraith's  aftairs." 

"And  they  are  in  as  hopeless  a  con- 
dition as  you  thought  ?"  taking  down  a 
boxwood  screen  to  shelter  her  face  from 
the  fire. 

"Worse  —  worse!  She  brought  all 
she  had  to  this  hobby  and  topjjled  it  in. 
By  the  Lord  Harry !  When  a  wo- 
man goes  into  business — I  beg  your 
pardon — but,  now,  you  must  have  seen, 
Mrs.  Duffield,  what  women  in  business 
are.     Screws  or  spendthrifts." 

"  Pray,  sit  down,  Colonel.  It  tires 
me  to  see  you  tramping  up  and  down  in 
that  manner." 

"I'll  take  a  glass  of  wine,"  going  to 
the  sideboard.  "  I'm  fagged  out.  Try 
a  little  of  this  hock,  Mrs.  Duffield.  It's 
very  delicate." 

"  I  have  had  my  tea.  I  never  omit 
taking  my  tea  at  the  regular  hour,  hap- 
pen what  may."  She  waited  tranquilly 
until  he  came  back  and  drew  himself  up 
on  the  hearth-rug  fussily,  his  back  to  the 
fire,  tucking  his  coat-tails  under  each 
arm. 

"  Well,  there  is  no  chance  of  escape. 
If  the  estate  was  brought  to  the  ham- 
mer to-morrow,  it  would  not  cover  her 
liabilities  and  reheve  half  of  the  absolute 
suffering  of  these  people.  There  is  a 
young  fellow  down  at  the  fire  who  gave 
me  some  practical  hints  to-day.  He 
advises  buying  land  for  them  out  West. 
Shipping  off  all  but  those  who  are 
not  able  to  make  their  way  in  a  new 
country." 

Mrs.  Duffield  nodded  approvingly. 

"He  remarked  that  there  seemed  to 
be  no  capital  to  run  the  mills  again,  and 
the  land  is  too  poor  to  support  so  large 
a  number  as  small  farmers  ;  and  as  for 
the  infernal  wells — why,  even  if  they 
don't  burn  themselves  out,  their  yield,  it 
appears,  has  been  but  half  that  which 
Finn  stated.  This  young  fellow  got  the 
truth  from  him  to-day.  He's  a  cool 
hand  !  And  he's  posted :  he  only  needs 
to  look  at  the  soil  or  oil  to  know  all 
about  it.  He's  been  at  work  down  there 
all  night  and  to-day.  Those  poor  people 
have  quite  made  a  leader  of  him." 


"  To  the  West  ?"  thoughtfully.  "  Does 
Madam  Galbraith  consent  to  that .''" 

"  Why  should  I  speak  of  it  to  her  ? 
How  can  we  send  them  to  the  West .' 
When  her  liabilities  are  paid,  after  the 
estate  is  brought  to  the  hammer — " 
stopping  to  cough. 

"  Yes.      I  understand,"  hastily. 

"  But  you  do  not  understand  the  ex- 
tent of  that  absurd  engagement.  These 
people  were,  in  general,  respectable  me- 
chanics, with  more  or  less  means.  They 
are  left  without  a  stick  to  shelter  them. 
She  has  engaged  to  restore  them  the  full 
amount  that  they  lost — the  full  amount." 

Mrs.  Duffield  changed  her  position 
and  lifted  the  hand-screen  again  before 
she  spoke.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  a 
little,  even  with  its  use.  "There  is  a 
small  sum  of  money,"  she  said,  "  which 
I  would  be  glad  to  appropriate  to  carry- 
ing out  Madam  Galbraith's  wish.  Colo- 
nel Pervis  ;  provided  that  you  will  not 
mention  to  her,  or  to  any  one,  indeed, 
that  you  received  it." 

"  Certainly  not — assuredly  not — if  you 
desire  it.  I  am  sure  you  would  give  to 
the  extent  of  your  power  to  these  poor 
creatures,  Mrs.  Duffield." 

"  I  want  to  help  them — well,  yes. 
And  I  wish  Madam  Galbraith  to  be 
gratified  in  fulfilling  her  promise.  You 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  converting  these 
into  money,"  handing  him  a  sealed  en- 
velope. 

Colonel  Pervis  withdrew  with  the 
package  to  the  lamp  :  then  hurried  back, 
stammering,  with  excitement,  "  Why, 
madam  !  these  are  bonds.  This  is  the 
bulk  of  your  property  !" 

She  made  no  answer,  other  than  an 
annoyed  frown,  which  knit  her  placid 
brows  for  a  moment.  He  stood  staring 
curiously  at  her : 

"  It  is  incredible.  I  never  was  so 
astonished  in  my  life  !  Why,  positiveh', 
do  you  know,  I  have  fancied  that  you 
were  even  a  little  hard  on  the  poor  some- 
times ?  And  as  for  Madam  Galbraith — 
I  did  not  know  that  two  women  ever  had 
so  deep  a  feeling  for  each  other.  You 
must  pardon  me,  but  this  is  so  extra- 
ordinary a — " 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said,  calmly : 


1 64 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


"  You  forget  that  I  am  Tom  Galbraith's 
wife.  It  was  for  me  that  he  left  his 
mother ;  it  was  for  my  sake  that  he  did 
not  return  to  her  to  die.  I  know  now 
what  the  loss  was  to  her.  I  think  if  I 
can  make  her  old  age  happier  and 
more  honorable  by  this  sacrifice,  it  is  but 
a  small  atonement.  Besides,  I  know  a 
dozen  ways  of  earning  my  own  living. 
I've  been  used  to  doing  it,"  with  an  in- 
dolent smile  ;  "  and,  after  all,  one  needs 
but  a  trifle.  Tea  and  toast  and  fruit 
— I  eat  very  little  more  than  that ;  and 
one  can  dress  in  muslin  quite  as  becom- 
ingly as  in  silk." 

But  the  Colonel  tapped  the  envelope 
stupidly  with  his  thumb,  as  if  he  had 
been  deaf  to  her  explanation.  "  But  it 
is  all  you  have — all,"  looking  down  at 
the  fair,  perfectly  well-dressed  little  wo- 
man. "  And  this  will  not  be  enough.  A 
mere  drop  in  the  ocean — " 

"  Let  it  go  as  far  as  it  will,  then,"  ris- 
ing and  laying  down  the  screen.  "  I 
think  my  husband — "  she  stopped,  and 
was  silent  so  long  that  he  looked  won- 
deringly  at  her.  She  went  on,  with  an 
effort :  "  Tom  would  wish  me  to  do  it  for 
his  mother.  I  thought  last  night  that  he — 
No  matter  !  We  women  have  our  fan- 
cies, you  know,  Colonel."  He  thought 
a  nervous  quiver  passed  over  her  face  ; 
but  so  used  was  he  to  its  constant,  care- 
less calm,  he  concluded  it  must  have 
been  but  the  flicker  of  the  firelight.  She 
took  up  her  book,  and  bidding  him  good- 
night, moved  to  the  door.  But  he  stood 
before  her : 

"  But  you  don't  consider,  madam  ! 
Don't  put  this  responsibility  on  me. 
You'll  be  sorry  for  it  to-morrow,  and 
then  you'll  think  I've  robbed  you.  Why, 
you  haven't  even  got  a  receipt !  'Pon 
my  soul,  I  never  was  in  such  a  strait  in 
my  life.  Take  back  the  cursed  thing, 
there's  a  good  soul !  You'll  be  sorry  for 
it  to-morrow.    You  haven't  considered." 

"  I  will  not  be  sorry,"  looking  him 
full  in  the  eyes.  "  I  never  did  anything 
without  considering  it.  Tom  would  wish 
me  to  help  his  mother.  And — I  loved 
my  husband,  Colonel  Pervis,"  in  a  low 
tone. 

The  bluff  old  fellow  was  silent.     He 


bowed  low  to  her  as  he  opened  the  door, 
the  hot,  generous  blood  dyeing  his  face 
as  if  it  had  been  the  secret  of  his  own 
heart  which  had  been  dragged  out.  He 
buttoned  up  the  package  in  his  breast- 
pocket, and  then  absently  walked  to  the 
sideboard  as  Dour  came  in  : 

"Take  a  jorum  of  brandy,  Dour. 
No  1  Here's  a  mess  of  sweets  and 
cake — women's  stuff".  Have  nothing — 
'm  ?  Well,  here's  luck  !  I'll  be  hanged," 
he  broke  out,  "  if  women  aren't  the  in- 
fernalest  contradictions  !  Cake  and  tea 
and  muslin — there's  the  objects  of  im- 
portance to  them.  And  they'll  fling 
around  fortunes  like  half-pence." 

Dour  assented,  sitting  with  his  legs 
stretched  out,  looking  sourly  in  the  fire. 
He  could  not  but  be  gentle  with  the 
worsted  old  woman  up  stairs,  who  had 
been  his  ruin  ;  but  he  could  not  forget 
that  he  was  here  with  a  penniless  wife 
on  his  hands  and  his  chances  gone. 

The  Colonel  took  up  his  hat  and  looked 
out  through  the  darkened  hall,  which 
was  as  silent  as  the  grave.  A  gloom, 
heavier  than  death,  had  fallen  on  the 
house.  "  Lord  !  Lord  !"  he  said,  with  a 
miserable  yawn  ;  "the  good  old  times  are 
gone  for  ever  here,  I  reckon.  I  must  go 
home  and  put  something  in  the  safe,  and 
I'll  ride  down  to  the  wells  and  hunt  up 
that  young  fellow.  I've  taken  a  mon- 
strous liking  to  him,  Dour.  Queer 
where  I've  seen  him  before.  I  can't 
remember.  I  didn't  like  to  ask  his 
name."  He  went  out,  taking  the  short- 
est way  to  the  stables. 

As  he  opened  the  hall-door,  a  man 
came  up  to  him  in  the  darkness.  A 
horse  stood  a  few  paces  off,  from  which  he 
had  apparently  just  dismounted.  Some- 
thing in  his  manner  roused  the  colonel's 
quick  suspicion :  he  held  his  military 
cloak  closely  about  the  lower  part  of  his 
face,  concealing  it,  and  stopped  a  few 
paces  back  in  the  shadow.  The  voice, 
too,  was  strained  and  unnatural. 

He  bowed  vidth  a  sort  of  flourish  ; 
"You  are  one  of  the  family,  sir  ?" 

"  Well,  no  ;  not  exactly.  But  I  can 
take  that  place,  I  suppose." 

"There  was  a  wedding  here  last 
nicht  ?" 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


i6s 


"Yes,  there  was  a  wedding." 

"It  was  that  of  young  Galbraith,  I 
presume  ?" 

The  Colonel  hesitated,  perplexed : 
"There  is  but  one  Galbraith — the  old 
man.  Any  one  belonging  to  this  neigh- 
borhood should  know  that,"  with  a  keener 
look  of  suspicion. 

"  But  the  heir  ?  James  Galbraith's 
son — grandson  .''" 

"Tom  Galbraith  is  dead  years  ago, 
and  his  son  died  when  he  was  a  boy." 

The  man  had  pressed  closer  in  his 
breathless  eagerness,  leaning  forward, 
where  a  stream  of  light  fell  from  a  side 
window,  unconscious  that  the  cloak  had 
slipped  down  on  his  shoulders.  It  was  a 
gaunt,  hollow-jawed  face  that  was  ex- 
posed, marked  with  purple  blotches,  the 
flat,  dead  black  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 
"  That  fellow's  been  a  hard  drinker  and 
had  his  daj',"  the  Colonel  had  time  to 
think  in  the  pause  that  followed;  "but 
Death's  got  a  hold  on  him  now."  So 
shght  and  unwholesome,  in  fact,  was  the 
tenure  by  which  the  man  seemed  to  hold 
upon  the  world  that  the  Colonel  drew  back 
with  a  vague,  uncomfortable  dread.  The 
dark,  wretched  night  without  seemed  to 
have  taken  shape  in  this  darker,  more 
wretched  shadow. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Dallas 
Galbraith  is  not  here  ?" 

"  I  do  mean  to  say  it.  I  know  no 
such  person." 

"Then  I  am  too  late."  He  stood 
erect,  fumbling,  a  moment  after,  uncer- 
tainly at  his  breast,  as  though  in  pain, 
and  was  turning  away,  when  a  thought 
seemed  to  strike  him.  He  caught  Per- 
vis  by  the  arm.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't 
deceive  me,"  he  cried.     "  Dall  may  be 


hiding  from  me.  I've  dragged  myself 
back  from  California  to  see  him.  Look 
at  me  !"  thrusting  out  his  bony,  emaci- 
ated hands  :  "  they  are  like  birds'  claws. 
That  fever  did  for  me,  they  say.  Bah  ' 
I've  got  the  strength  of  a  dozen  men 
yet,  and,  hving  or  dead,  I  must  see  Gal- 
braith.    Don't  deceive  me." 

"I've  no  wish  to  deceive  you.  my 
friend,"  gently.  "  The  man  you  want  is 
not  here." 

He  drew  back  incredulously:  "I'll 
soon  verify  that.  If  he's  not  here,  I'll 
find  where  he  is.  I've  laid  my  plans,  and 
ril  end  them  in  m}'  own  way.  A  man 
who  fights  with  Death,  as  I've  done,  and 
gets  the  upper  hand,  is  not  to  be  balked 
like  a  boy." 

There  was  something  in  the  melo- 
dramatic tone  and  stride  of  the  man,  as 
he  went  back  to  the  horse,  that  struck 
Colonel  Pervis  as  not  unfamiliar.  "  If 
that  braggart,  Laddoun,  were  dead,  his 
ghost  would  come  bullying  back  in  that 
fashion,"  he  thought.  "  But  no  liv- 
ing man  could  so  alter.  This  fellow 
looks  as  if  he  had  been  down  through 
hell." 

Going  for  his  horse,  after  the  man 
had  disappeared,  he  stopped  suddenly. 
"  Why,  Dallas  Galbraith  is  the  boy  who 
is  dead  !"  he  said,  aloud.  The  Colonel 
was  a  brave  man,  but  he  quickened  his 
walk  to  the  stables.  The  events  of  the 
previous  night  and  the  jorums  of  brandy 
had  no  effect  upon  him,  he  told  himself; 
nor  was  he  superstitious.  But  when  men, 
with  the  mark  of  death  on  them,  came  at 
night  searching  for  dead  men  in  a  house 
as  cursed  with  calamity  as  this,  evil  must 
follow.  There  were  signs  which  no  wise 
man  would  slight. 


PART    VIII. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"  "I  T  fHY  did  you  not  bring  the  young 
VV  man  here,  Colonel  Pervis  ?" 
"Well,  really.  Madam  Galbraith  !  I— 
I  wouldn't  risk  presenting  him  to  ladies 
without  permission.  He  has  not  that 
— that  certain  gentlemanly  ease — that 
je  7te  sais  quoi — you  understand  ?" 

"  Bah  !  Gentlemanly  ease  !  I  un- 
derstand that  the  fellow  has  common 
sense  and  information,  which  I  need. 
What  is  his  ease  to  me  ?  The  wisest 
practical  advice  we  have  received  in  this 
matter  are  these  hints  which  you  have 
brought  us  from  him.  I  desire  that  you 
will  bring  him  here  immediately,  Colonel 
Pervis." 

The  Colonel  took  his  slippered  feet 
from  the  fire,  glancing  out  at  the  driving 
storm  of  sleet  and  hail  that  hid  even 
the  near  mountains  from  sight.  "  Well, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  madam,  there's  no 
use  in  going,  for  the  man  won't  come. 
I  saw  him  last  night  (after  I  had  that 
talk  with  you,  Mrs.  Duffield,  you  know), 
and  I  asked  him  to  come  up  and  ex- 
plain to  Mr.  Galbraith  about  that  West- 
ern land.  But  he  was  too  busy  among 
the  people.  '  I  intend  to  go  up,'  he 
said  ;  '  but  my  first  duty  is  here.'  And 
really  he  had  a  quiet,  cool,  hearty  way 


with  him  which  brought  order  out  of  the 
confusion  in  a  miraculous  manner." 

"  He  had  no  business  to  meddle  with 
the  people  without  direction  and  appro- 
val from  me,"  said  Madam  Galbraith. 
She  sat  before  a  table  heaped  with  maps 
and  account-books,  which  she  had  been 
turning  over  all  morning  with  a  secret 
feeble  bewilderment. 

Colonel  Pervis  laughed :  « I  fancy 
this  young  fellow  puts  his  shoulder  to 
any  cart  that  is  in  the  mire,  without 
caring  whether  Hercules  approves  or 
not." 

«'  What  is  his  name,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  He  did  not  mention  it,  and  I  didn't 
ask  him.  He  is  not  a  person  whom  one 
would  annoy  with  curiosity.  I've  an  in- 
distinct impression  that  I  saw  him  before 
somewhere.  By  George !  Mrs.  Duf- 
field, I  know  where  I  saw  him  before  ! 
The  young  man  who  went  with  Pritch- 
ard  !  We  met  them  on  the  road.  You 
remember  ?" 

"Yes,  I  remember."  With  the  re- 
membrance an  uneasy  shadow  seemed  to 
fall  on  her.  She  never  had  forgotten 
the  chance  encounter :  the  thought  of 
it  chafed  angrily  an  old  sore  wound 
carefully  covered  from  sight  for  these 
many  years.  She  could  not  endure  that 
any  living  man  should  bear  a  likeness  to 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


167 


her  dead  boy.  It  violated  and  made 
common  that  which  was  beyond  all  else 
sacred  to  her. 

She  rose  and  went  to  her  own  room 
presently,  fearing  that  the  man  would 
appear  unexpectedly,  and  wishing  as 
usual  to  spare  herself  unnecessary  pain. 

But  the  Colonel  was  excited  about 
his  discovery.  He  waited  impatiently, 
hearing  Mr.  Galbraith's  light,  measured 
step  in  the  hall.  The  two  men  had  been 
at  work  all  night,  estimating  the  losses 
and  drawing  up  schedules  of  the  prop- 
erty for  sale.  Land,  houses,  stock  to  the 
last  implement,  were  inexorably  noted 
down,  and  the  lists  quietly  despatched  to 
the  printers.  In  the  morning,  at  Mrs. 
Dufifield's  suggestion,  they  gave  the 
books  to  Madam  Galbraith,  hoping  to 
employ  her  with  fancied  usefulness. 

Colonel  Pervis  hardly  waited  until 
Mr.  Galbraith  entered  the  room  :  "  The 
young  man  whom  I  mentioned  to  you  so 
favorably  last  night — I  have  discovered 
who  he  is,  Mr.  Galbraith !" 

"  Ah  1  Who,  Pervis  ?"  indifferently, 
for  the  colonel's  heats  and  enthusiasms 
were  of  daily  recurrence. 

"  A  young  fellow  who  went  with 
Pritchard  to  New  Mexico.  I  remember 
his  face  perfectly." 

Mr.  Galbraith,  who  had  advanced 
half-way  across  the  room,  stopped,  as 
though  the  words  had  been  a  blow,  look- 
ing fixedly  at  Pervis  a  moment :  then 
turning  suddenly  he  went  to  a  bookcase, 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  them  while 
he  took  down  and  replaced  uncertainly 
volume  after  volume.  A  few  moments 
after,  Madam  Galbraith  closed  her  great 
folio  decisively  : 

"What  is  the  use  of  it?  It  is  like 
reading  the  log-book  of  a  ship  after  the 
vessel  has  gone  to  pieces  on  the  rocks. 
When  this  storm  abates.  Colonel  Pervis, 
I  desire  that  you  will  bring  that  young 
man  up.  I  will  consult  him  about  the 
soil  out  yonder  and  the  direct  routes, 
should  we  decide  to  purchase." 

"  Hannah  !"  She  looked  up,  rising 
quickly,  when  she  saw  her  husband's 
changed  face. 

«'  What  is  it,  James  ?"  hurriedly. 
« Have  you  heard  of  any  good  news  ? 


Is  there  any  chance  for  us  to  save  the 
land  ?"  adding,  with  a  feeble  apologetic 
smile  when  he  did  not  reply  immediately, 
"  I'd  be  glad  to  think  the  old  ship  was 
not  a  wreck  after  all." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  land.  I 
only  had  a  vi^ord  to  say  to  Pervis  in  re- 
ference to  this  young  man." 

"  Oh  !"  She  walked  to  the  window, 
looking  out  at  the  storm  with  gloomy 
indifference. 

"  I  wish,  Colonel — if  my  wife  con- 
sent," glancing  nervously  at  her — "  that 
you  would  not  convey  to  him  any  desire 
of  ours  that  he  should  come  here.  We 
did  not  accept  him  in  the  days  when  we 
had  position  and  wealth  to  give,  and 
now  that  we  are  destitute  and  apt  to  be 
a  burden  in  our  old  age,  we  will  force 
no  man  into  our — our  misfortune.  But 
I  think  he  will  come  of  his  own  will," 
he  said,  looking  out  into  the  plains  and 
high  drifts  of  unlightened  snow. 

Both  his  wife  and  Colonel  Pervis 
turned  and  looked  at  him  silently,  so 
great  was  the  unwonted  agitation  in  his 
voice  and  the  causeless  brightening  of 
his  thin  face.  The  same  thought  sug- 
gested itself  to  both  :  the  quiet  scholar 
had  grown  morbid  and  jealous,  dragged, 
as  he  had  been,  from  his  long  retirement 
and  forced  to  face  the  coarse  realities  of 
the  past  few  days. 

The  Colonel  rose.  "  Of  course,  my 
dear  sir,  I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  sooth- 
ingly. "  But  the  lad  is  a  very  simple, 
genuine  fellow — the  last  sort  of  person 
with  whom  one  would  observe  ceremony. 
No  polish  —  you  comprehend  :  none 
at  all." 

Madam  Galbraith  came  back  to  the 
table  and  drew  her  books  hastily  up 
again  :  "  It  surely  matters  little  whether 
the  young  man  comes  or  not,"  her  iras- 
cible, black-browed  face  lowering.  "  Loss 
of  property  can  hardly  sink  us  so  low, 
James,  that  the  opinion  of  any  man  can 
affect  or  touch  us."  Mr.  Galbraith  said 
nothing,  but  paced  up  and  down  the  long 
apartment  in  his  old  manner ;  but  his 
step  was  nervous  and  quick,  and  tliere 
was  a  health  and  light-heartedness  in  his 
frosty  face  and  blue  eye  new  to  them. 

Colonel  Pervis  uneasily  went  to  the 


1 68 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


door :  "  I'll  go  to  the  stables.  Those 
fellows  have  come  to  appraise  the  horses. 
You  wish  them  all  sold,  madam  ?  There 
is  no  exception  ?" 

She  raised  her  hand  impatiently  and 
shook  her  gray  head.  When  he  had  gone, 
she  growled  :  "  They  ought  to  be  told 
that  tlie  breed  is  a  famous  one  to  draw 
the  horse-jockeys,"  with  savage  bit- 
terness. "They  have  been  in  the  Dour 
stables  for  generations.  My  father  would 
have  sold  his  child  as  soon  as  one  of 
them.  /  have  swept  them  all  off— for 
that  drove  of  paupers  yonder  !" 

Defeat  had  not  metamorphosed  Han- 
nah Dour  into  a  weaker  or  sweeter- 
natured  woman.  The  vase  was  broken, 
never  to  be  the  same  again  ;  but  the 
fragments  yet  lay  useless,  rough  and  un- 
sightly. Some  kindlier  element  than 
her  life  yet  knew  was  needed  to  bring 
them  into  harmony  again.  Her  husband 
came  up  abruptly  to  her  side  and  pushed 
the  books  away  from  her. 

"  No,  James.  It  is  better  for  me  to 
study  my  loss,"  looking  up  irritably  at 
him.  But  he  had  turned  from  lier  already, 
and  his  eyes  again  wandered  over  the 
gray  wastes  outside. 

"  Your  power  and  your  loss  are  both 
dead  and  gone.  That  story's  told.  But 
there  may  be  another  chance,  Han- 
nah— "  She  did  not  answer,  watching 
his  abstracted  face  with  a  startled  wonder. 
There  was  something  in  it  wliich  she  had 
not  seen  there  for  many  years  ;  the  look 
that  belonged  to  Tom,  and  Tom  alone. 
Before  she  had  taken  the  boy  into  her 
own  charge  as  the  heir  of  the  Dours,  and 
thrust  his  father  back  from  him.  Many 
a  time  she  had  seen  that  same  forbear- 
ing, amused,  tender  smile  lighten  through 
the  reserved  face  and  betray  the  boy's 
heart  underneath,  when  he  and  Tom 
romped  on  the  hay  together,  or  walked 
hand  in  hand  over  the  stubble. 

Tom  was  dead  —  in  a  profligate's 
grave. 

"  There  is  no  chance  in  the  future  for 
either  you  or  me,  James,"  she  said,  in  a 
low,  forced  tone.  "  You  might  as  well 
hope  for  that  decayed  old  trunk  yonder 
to  break  into  fresh  leaves  again  and  to 
bear  fruit."     She  walked   rapidly  away 


from  him  as  she  spoke,  and  stopped  as 
suddenly,  her  great,  gaunt  body  cower- 
ing over  the  lire. 

Mr.  Galbraith  did  not  speak :  he  waited 
patiently  by  the  window  till  the  driving 
wind  lulled,  and  the  noonday  sun  glinted 
feebly  upon  the  white  wastes,  over  which 
came  no  sign  of  moving  figure.  The 
sun  was  lost  in  an  impenetrable  distance 
of  gray  and  cold  as  the  short  winter 
afternoon  wore  slowly  on  into  evening  ; 
and  yet  no  shadow  had  crossed  the 
fields  ;  but  still  the  wistful,  thin,  wliite- 
moustachioed  face  which  old  age  had 
touched  only  on  the  surface  waited 
patient  behind  the  dim  pane.  Before 
nightfall,  he  thought  the  shadow  would  be 
seen  upon  the  snow,  and  then —  Why, 
that  lad's  simple,  grave  face,  alive  Avith 
unsuspicious  strength  and  kindliness, 
over  which  there  was  no  polish — that 
was  his  own  face  when  he  was  a  boy ; 
and  the  clear,  genial  voice — that  was 
Tom's  :  when  it  would  ring  out  again  in 
this  dreary  house  to-night,  all  that  had 
been  lost  out  of  his  Hfe  would  come  back 
to  him.  Tom's  son,  coming  over  that 
vast  waste  of  snow,  seemed  to  come  up 
from  out  of  his  long-ago  youth,  to  bring 
from  that  old  enchanted  land  the  days  of 
hard  work,  sound  rest,  silly,  happy  jokes 
and  laughter.  The  days  before  the  shadow 
of  a  great  fortune  tamed  and  cowed  him, 
and  faded  all  the  zest  and  pleasure 
out  of  life.  The  fortune  was  gone,  thank 
God  !  At  last,  in  his  old  age,  a  man's 
portion  of  wife  and  child  was  coming 
to  him. 


As  the  sun  went  down  into  inexplor- 
able  regions  in  the  west  of  gray  and 
cold,  toward  the  close  of  the  winter  af- 
ternoon, a  little  skiff  put  across  the 
river,  from  the  jjoint  where  the  houses 
were  in  which  the  people  had  found 
refuge,  to  the  flat  where  the  town  had 
stood.  When  it  grounded  on  the  beach 
the  two  men  who  were  in  it  sprang 
ashore,  and  after  making  it  fast  walked 
slowly  over  the  burnt  district,  halting  by 
the  black  gaps  in  the  snow  where  the 
fires  still  raged  with  horrible  fumes  and 
stench. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


169 


«  This  was  the  best  of  the  wells,"  said 
Mr.  Rattlin  by  one  of  them,  smelling 
some  of  tlie  soot,  \\-ith  a  funereal  shake 
of  tlie  head.  "  Dear,  dear  !  You  are 
going  up  to  the  Galbraith  homestead  this 
evening,  I  tliink  you  said  ?' 

"Yes;  I  am  going  there."  He  had 
been  looking  eamesdy  at  the  distant 
hea\-}-  pile  of  building  ridged  blackly 
against  the  white  mountain-side ;  but 
when  Mr.  Rattlin  spoke  averted  his 
eyes  from  it  quickly. 

"  They  must  be  kinsfolk  of  yours  : 
there  are  innumerable  Galbraiths  here- 
abouts." 

'•  They  are  kinsfolk,"  quietly.  They 
left  the  wells  and  turned  into  what 
had  been  the  town,  as  the  masses  of 
charred,  black  rafters  told  them,  and  here 
and  there  the  unsightl}-  ruin  of  what  had 
been  a  cozy  little  dwelling  not  yet  de- 
cently buried  beneath  the  screening 
snow.  Mr.  Rattlin  grew  more  and  more 
silent. 

"  This  cottage  was  built  for  my  daugh- 
ter Gertrude,"  he  said,  touching  ■nnth  his 
foot  a  sooty  heap  of  boards  and  plaster, 
on  which  covdd  yet  be  seen  a  bright, 
pretty  paper.  "  She  was  married  that 
night  It  was  not  a  happy  beginning  of 
life." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken 
of  his  own  loss  to  any  one  ;  but  his 
heart  had  warmed  strangely  to  this  quiet 
young  feUow,  who  had  thrown  him- 
self into  tliis  pit  of  suffering  as  if  it 
were  the  simplest,  naturalest  thing  to 
do,  and  had  helped  so  many  out  with  his 
cool  head  and  strong  hands.  Perhaps 
his  bo}-ish  credulity  had  made  him  too 
pitiful — an  easy  dupe  to  imposture.  But 
Mr.  Rattlin  was  not  the  man  to  see  that, 
or  to  blame  it  if  he  saw.  There  had 
been  something  in  the  boy's  manner 
also  for  which  no  pit}-  could  account, 
as  though  he  felt  himself  in  some  way 
guilty  of  tlieir  misfortune  and  bound  to 
atone  for  it. 

Mr.  Ratdin  stopped  a  few  paces 
farther  on,  glancing  up  hesitatingly  at 
his  tall,  grave  companion :  "  This  was 
our  own  house.  Mr.  Galbraith.  We  are 
not  young  people — my  wife  and  I — yet 
this  was  really  our  first  true  start  in  life. 


We  had  a  great  many  plans  laid.     We 
have  had  to  abandon  them." 

Dallas  watched  the  little  man  steadily, 
measuring  him  apparendy  by  some  men- 
tal scale,  while  he  stood  looking  down 
at  the  ruin  as  though  he  had  walked  over 
a  grave. 

"  You  have  no  church  now,  then  ?" 
said  Galbraith. 

"  No  ;  my  old  place  is  filled.  It  was 
but  a  small  country'  parish.  But  it  is 
filled.  I  have  work  enough  ready  to  my 
hand  among  tliose  people  yonder,  as  you 
see." 

"Yet  I  am  disposed,"  Dallas  said, 
with  hesitation.  '•  to  ask  you  to  under- 
take more.  There  are  some  children — 
three  or  four :  I  took  them  a  year  ago  to 
tr}-  to  make  decent  men  and  women  of 
them.  Baptist  Methodist  or  Catholic — 
they  can  settle  that  matter  for  themselves 
when  they're  older,  but  my  plan  was  to 
give  them  a  home  :  to  let  them  see  a 
mother  in  her  home  and  hear  of  Christ 
They're  out  of  the  New  York  slums — 
you  understand ;  they  were  going  very 
straight  down  into  heU.  But  they're  fine, 
brave  boys  at  bottom."  He  stopped, 
breathless. 

^Ir.  Rattlin  did  not  smile  at  his  igno- 
rance or  contradictions.  "  I  under- 
stand !"  catching  the  breast  of  Dallas' 
coat  and  looking  eagerly  up  into  the 
homely,  flushed  face.  "You  want  to 
save  them.  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  help 
you — I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"  There  are  only  three  or  four,  and 
there  are  thousands  left.  But  my  salary 
was  not  large.  Out  of  it  I  gave  a  cer- 
tain sum  to  pay  for  their  boarding.  I 
can  be  sure  of  the  same  amount  next 
year.  Now.  will  you  take  it  and  them  ? 
I  paid  for  them  last  year — "  naming  a 
certain  sum. 

"Why,  that  would  be  enough  for  me 
to  rent  one  of  those  little  farms  back  on 
the  McDowell  hill  l"  and  Mr.  Rattlin's 
eyes  sparkled  in  spite  of  himself  ••  It 
is  productive  land  and  cheap.  We  could 
live  comfortably  on  it  I'll  do  what  I 
can  for  the  boys,  with  God's  help." 

"There's  good  stuif  in  them,  or  I 
wouldn't  ask  you  to  tn,-,"  said  Dallas 
earnesdy,  as  they  walked  on  together 


l-'O 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


«  1  've  had  the  plan  at  heart  a  long  while : 
evf-r  since — a  time  when  I  was  thrown 
in  contact  with  them."  He  gave  another 
quick,  doubtful  glance  at  the  towering 
house  apart  among  the  mountains  and 
became  suddenly  silent. 

Mr.  Rattlin  spoke  at  last  with  embar- 
rassment:  "I  think  I'll  go  and  tell  my 
little  woman  the  good  news.  You  don't 
know  how  good  this  news  is  to  us,  Mr. 
Galbraith.  I  had  plenty  of  work  in 
view,  but  really  there  was  no  good  pros- 
pect of  food  or  clothes.  And  there  are 
eleven  of  us.  Very  hearty  eaters,  too, 
thank  God  !  I  can  work  among  these 
emigrants  all  the  same  now." 

"  Look  out  for  your  farm  to-morrow, 
then,  and  let  me  know  when  you  have 
secured  it,"  said  Dallas,  heartily.  "I'll 
send  for  my  boys  when  you  are  ready. 
We'll  make  good  farmers  and  mechanics 
of  them  some  day."  But  when  he  had 
done  speaking,  he  fell,  as  before,  into 
thoughtful  silence,  as  though  some  darker 
shadow  than  this  old  helpful  fancy  rose 
before  him  and  darkened  his  thoughts. 
They  passed  out  of  the  town. 

<'  There  lies  your  road."  Mr.  Rattlin 
pointed  to  the  liae  marked  by  the  fences 
through  the  snow.  "  You  can  reach  the 
homestead  before  dark."  But  Dallas, 
after  a  slight  hesitation,  walked  on  slowly 
by  his  side.  "  It  is  like  going  into  the 
house  of  the  dead  to  me,"  pursued  the 
little  man.  « There  has  no  such  utter 
ruin  fallen  on  any  family  in  my  know- 
ledge. Though  they  could  have  saved 
a  comfortable  fortune  if  it  had  not  been 
for  this  last  sacrifice  to  fulfill  a  shadowy 
sort  of  engagement.  But  that  washed 
away  every  stain  on  their  honor.  It  was 
worth  the  money." 

"  They  are  a  family  who  cling  closely 
to  their  honor .'"' 

"  With  reason.  It  is  a  matter,  in- 
deed, in  which  we  all  take  pride  for 
them.  They  were  the  first  white  set- 
tlers among  these  hills,  and  since  old 
John  Dour  there  has  never  been  one  of 
the  name  who  would  cheat  an  enemy  or 
betray  a  friend.  Hard  drinkers  and 
fighters  sometimes,  but  clean-blooded — 
clean-blooded." 

The  prolonged  silence  of  the  young 


man  caused  Mr.  Rattlin  to  look  at  him 
curiously.  "  You  came  here  from  New 
Mexico  on  this  pilgrimage  to  the  Gal- 
braith homestead,  I  think  you  said  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  not  often  we  find  a  young  man 
so  persistent  in  purpose,"  smiling. 

"  It  is  an  old  purpose  with  me."  He 
stopped,  with  one  hand  on  the  fallen 
bars  leading  into  the  road.  «  I  think  1 
will  leave  you  now.  It  is  time  I  was  on 
my  way,"  in  the  same  slow  tone,  which 
gave  to  his  hearer  the  constant  impres- 
sion that,  for  some  reason,  he  held  his 
natural,  boyish  impulses,  his  tastes  and 
fancies  in  a  hard,  inflexible  leash  until 
the  time  should  come  to  loose  them. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Galbraith,"  cheerily. 
"You've  given  me  good  news  to  carry 
home.     God  bless  you." 

"  I  am  glad  you  said  that,"  quickly. 
«'  Good-bye."  He  stepped  over  the  bars 
and  struck  into  the  road.  Another  man, 
irresolute  as  Dallas  as  to  whether,  after 
his  long  journey  from  New  Mexico,  he 
would  after  all  finish  his  pilgrimage, 
would  have  stopped  to  deliberate,  left 
alone  in  the  untrodden  road  while  the 
little  black  figure  of  the  preacher  disap- 
peared over  the  snow.  But  he,  deliber- 
ating, went  steadily  on  with  his  swing- 
ing, unhesitating  gait.  How  old  was  the 
purpose  which  he  came  now  to  fulfill  ruj 
man  but  himself  could  ever  know. 

To  come  to  his  mother  when  he 
should  have  made  himself  fit  to  say — I 
am  your  son. 

The  record  of  his  daily,  hourly  strug- 
gles to  that  end,  in  the  mines,  in  prison, 
out  in  the  free,  healthy  life  of  the  last 
year,  she  would  never  read.  It  belonged 
to  that  inner  chamber  in  the  breast  of 
this  man,  where,  as  in  that  of  every  other, 
the  soul,  whose  face  no  friend  has  ever 
seen  or  shall  see,  sits  alone  inside  of 
tears  and  laughter,  and  keeps  silence. 
The  day  had  come  when  he  could  speak 
the  word  so  long  held  back.  He  was  a 
man  among  men.  He  was  the  last  of 
the  Dour  race  ;  he  could  throw  his 
young,  healthy  strength  into  their  sunken 
fortunes  and  bring  them  to  firm  ground 
again.  Out  on  the  Plains  at  night,  when 
all  in  the  corral  were  asleep,  how  often 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


171 


he  had  planned  this  final  home-coming 
of  his  life — to  Honora,  to  the  old  peo- 
ple, to  his  mother.  It  seemed  easy  to 
him  then,  when  they  would  all  he  to- 
gether, to  tell  them  of  that  first  mis- 
chance of  his  life,  caused  by  Laddoun's 
villainy.  It  would  be  as  simple  and  in- 
difiercnt  a  matter  to  them  as  it  had  be- 
come to  himself. 

But  here — with  the  prestige  of  the  old 
house  before  him  and  the  awe  of  the 
clean-blooded,  untainted  race — he  hesi- 
tated, with  the  long-ago  sick  loathing  of 
that  fall  of  his  wakening  from  its  sleep. 
He  had  gone  through  his  long  journey 
only  to  find  the  same  foul  slough  wait- 
ing for  him  at  the  end :  the  clean  name 
he  had  won  for  himself  must  be  dragged 
through  it  before  he  could  reach  his 
mother  and  Honora,  who  stood  waiting 
at  the  other  side. 

IMr.  Galbraith  from  his  window  had 
seen  Dallas,  a  mere  black  speck  in  the 
distance,  growing  distincter  as  he  came 
across  the  snow :  a  tall,  broad-shoul- 
dered figure  now — the  boy  at  last.  But 
at  this  point  he  stopped  irresolute,  his 
hand  on  the  gate ;  the  breath  of  the 
poor  old  watcher  in  the  window  came 
heavy  and  thick.  Why,  thought  Gal- 
braith, should  he  drag  back  the  old  in- 
famy on  himself?  A  good  part  of  his 
solitary  life  was  gone :  why  not  let  the 
rest  be  solitary  ?  That  free  life  in  the 
woods  had  suited  keenly  to  his  taste, 
and  was  shameless.  Why  not  go  back 
to  it? 

As  he  looked  up,  an  odd  procession 
met  his  eye  :  the  horses,  carefully  blan- 
keted, were  being  led  down  the  hill,  and 
outside  of  the  stables  stood  the  wagons, 
carriages,  the  cumbrous  old  family  coach, 
ready  to  be  taken  away  for  sale.  Carts 
were  heaped  with  tools  and  farming  im- 
plements and  the  trunks  and  rubbish  be- 
longing to  the  servants  :  the  cattle  were 
gone,  the  doors  of  the  empty  outhouses 
swung  to  and  fro  in  the  wind.  Mere 
hints  of  the  ruin  that  lay  beneath,  of 
how  utterly  dead  that  aflfluent,  beautiful 
life  was  which  had  awed  him  a  year  ago. 
But  one  object  touched  Dallas  with  real 
pity :  a  small,  tan-colored  pony  chaise, 
swathed  in  sooty  cloth  and  being  drag- 


ged away  by  a  stolid  Dutchman.  It  was 
Honora's  own  especial  possession,  from 
which  she  used  to  look  down  like  a 
princess  :  now  the  poor  little  girl  was 
dethroned,  beggared.  And  within  tliere 
was  the  old  man  and  woman  who  had 
come  to  want  in  their  days  of  feebleness 
and  gray  hairs  ;  and  he,  Dallas,  was 
about  to  skulk  oflT  like  a  coward  and 
leave  them  to  their  fate  !  His  own  flesh 
and  blood. 

"Hillo  !  I  knew  you'd  come !"  shouted 
Colonel  Pervis'  breezy  voice,  as  he  clam- 
bered heavily  down  a  ladder  from  a  tool- 
loft,  wrapped  in  a  shaggy  coat.  "  Here's 
a  wreck  for  you  !  Here's  desolation  ! 
I've  put  in  the  day  taking  stock  of  this 
infernal  iron-ware.  Where  are  you  for 
now  ?     Going  in  to  see  the  family  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  in." 

"  I'll  follow  you  directly.  There's  a 
lot  to  be  done  here,  and  having  no  son, 
you  see,  they  depend  on  their  friends." 
He  stopped,  with  one  hand  on  the  lad- 
der, looking  after  Dallas  and  pointing 
him  out  to  old  Henkel,  the  coachman. 
"  Do  you  see  that  young  fellow  in  the 
gray  overcoat  going  up  the  steps,  Joe  ? 
He's  been  out  among  the  Indians — 
farther  in  a  year  than  you  and  I  in  our 
lives.  His  very  walk  and  talk  has  a 
whiflF  of  the  prairie  in  it  to  me.  I  relish 
it.  It's  quite  outside  of  this  regular 
life  of  ours." 

"  He  kerries  hisself  like  ]\Ir.  Tom, 
sir,"  leaning  round  the  fence  to  catch 
the  last  glimpse  of  Dallas. 

"  Tom  !  Stuff  and  nonsense !  You're 
as  blind  as  an  owl,  Henkel !"  But  after- 
ward, as  he  went  through  the  dusty  grana- 
ries, paper  and  pencil  in  hand,  he  muttered 
occasionally  to  himself:  "Tom  Gal- 
braith ?  What  if  the  old  woman  takes 
that  notion  ?     Tom  Galbraith,  eh  ?" 

Dallas  went  up  the  broad  stone  steps, 
and  pushing  open  the  weighty  hall  door, 
entered  without  touching  the  lion's  head 
of  a  knocker  which  scowled  at  him.  It 
seemed  natural  for  him  to  go  in  and  out 
there :  it  was  his  home.  No  more 
skulking  through  dark  side-passages  or 
green-house  doors :  he  was  done  with 
concealment.  He  carried  his  story  with 
him  :  it  was  not  his  fault  if  it  was  fouled 


172 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


and  blotted  :  that  was  done  by  a  Hand 
outside  of  himself:  where  he  had  writ- 
ten it,  it  might  be  weak  and  paltry,  but 
it  was  well-intentioned  and  honest. 

The  light  was  dim  in  the  broad,  high- 
roofed  hall,  for  the  November  afternoon 
was  fast  merging  into  dusk  :  there  was 
no  sound  within  the  closed  doors  on 
either  side ;  but  from  the  barn-yard 
without  he  heard  the  rattle  of  the  wind- 
lass and  a  man  singing  some  old  country 
ditty  as  he  drew  water  from  the  well. 
The  sound  grated  strangely  on  the  mel- 
ancholy silence  and  the  choking  weight 
which  oppressed  his  breath.  Moro,  the 
old  house-dog,  got  up  from  the  wolf- 
skin on  which  he  lay  asleep,  and  came 
drowsily  up  to  the  stranger  standing 
motionless  by  the  door,  sniffed  about 
him  critically,  then  rubbed  his  approval 
against  his  legs,  looking  up  at  him.  The 
very  dog,  Dallas  thought,  had  the  anxious 
shadow  of  disaster  upon  him.  "Poor 
fellow !  Poor  fellow !"  stroking  his 
shaggy  head.  But  his  voice  was  hoarse 
and  unnatural,  even  to  himself:  he  was 
suddenly  silent. 

He  waited  a  while  without  moving,  but 
no  door  opened :  only  the  ticking  of  the 
great  clock  that  stood  on  the  dim,  broad 
stairs  yonder  told  off  the  minutes.  Moro 
a-ept  back  to  his  wolf-skin  and  lay  down 
again  to  sleep.  Dallas,  after  another 
moment's  pause,  chose  the  farthest  door 
at  random,  and  going  toward  it  with  his 
slow,  steady  step,  put  his  hand  upon  the 
lock.     But  he  did  not  open  it. 

What  was  it  that  waited  for  him  at 
the  other  side  of  that  thin  oaken  plank  ? 
The  mother  he  had  lost  so  long — a 
home — the  only  woman  he  had  ever 
loved  ?  Or  the  old  solitary  hfe,  with  the 
damning  disgrace  on  his  head,  heavier  to 
bear  than  before  ? 

It  was  his  mother  who  sat  inside  by 
the  clear,  red  fire.  She  came  often  to 
this  quiet  little  room  :  not  for  the  books 
on  the  hanging  shelves,  as  she  asserted, 
but  because  of  a  picture  which  hung 
over  the  mantel-shelf  It  was  little  Tom 
Galbraith  in  his  boyish  finery  of  velvet 
trowsers  and  blouse,  his  arm  over  his 
pony's  neck.  "  It  is  very  like  my  son 
Dallas,"  she  had  told  Madam  Galbraith 


the  first  time  she  saw  it,  looking  at  it 
with  steady  eyes.  "  Only  I  was  glad  to 
dress  him  in  corduroy.  And  Dallas  had 
no  pony :  many  a  mile  he  trudged  bare- 
foot to  carry  home  the  clothes  I  had 
washed."  It  was  the  only  bitter  reproach 
the  old  lady  had  ever  heard  from  her 
lips,  and  she  made  no  retort  to  it.  After 
that  she  never  saw  Mrs.  Dufifield  glance 
toward  the  picture.  Yet  there  was  not 
a  day  when  she  did  not  come  and  sit 
alone,  looking  at  it  with  her  calm,  un- 
fathomable eyes,  as  she  was  doing  now. 
Her  trunks  were  packed,  her  arrange- 
ments all  made  to  go  to-morrow  quietly, 
and,  far  out  of  the  knowledge  of  Madam 
Galbraith,  begin  the  world  over  again. 

"  I  have  no  regret  for  what  I  have 
done,"  she  told  Colonel  Pervis  an  hour 
before.  "  I  beg  that  you  will  consider 
the  matter  as  settled,"  and  going  into 
this  room,  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
Yet  Colonel  Pervis — none  of  them — 
could  know,  as  she  did,  what  this  life 
was  to  which  she  had  chosen  to  go 
back. 

Dallas  knew.    Her  boy,  who  was  dead. 

She,  too,  heard  the  clock  ticking 
through  the  dreary  November  afternoon 
as  she  sat,  her  hands  folded,  her  eyes  on 
the  child's  eyes,  a  different  meaning 
upon  her  face  from  those  which  even 
her  nearest  friends  had  ever  found  there. 
She  stood  up  at  last  at  the  sound  of  a 
step  outside,  and  with  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  her  chair,  gave  it  a  quick,  part- 
ing glance,  as  if  she  asked  for  pity. 
She  was  but  a  weak  httle  woman  after 
all,  and  in  heart,  perhaps,  was  miserably 
solitary. 

"  I  shall  be  quite  alone  out  there, 
now,"  she  said,  putting  her  fingers  up  to 
her  pale  lips.  "  I  will  not  have  you,  my 
little  boy,  now." 

She  turned  as  the  door  opened  on  its 
noiseless  hinges,  and  a  tall  man,  in  a 
gray  coat  and  planter's  hat,  who  stood 
without,  after  a  quick  glance  through 
the  room,  came  in  and  paused  in  tlie 
shadow,  looking  at  her.  It  required  a 
moment's  breath  to  bring  Mrs.  Dufiield 
to  her  ordinary  calm  composure.  The 
room  was  not  Hght  enough  for  her  to  de- 
tect the  likeness  which  had  troubled  her, 


DALLAS   GALBRATTH. 


^7Z 


but  her  quick  glance  recognized  at  once 
the  finely-sliaped  head,  the  homely,  noble 
features,  which  had  first  pleased  her  ar- 
tistic eye. 

'■  You  are  Doctor  Pritchard's  friend  ? 
You  wish  to  see  Madam  Galbraith  ?" 
recovering  her  ordinary  shallow,  pleas- 
ant voice. 

The  man  closed  the  door  behind  him 
and  came  toward  her,  removing  his  hat. 

"  No,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  did  not 
come  to  see  Madam  Galbraith." 

She  began  to  speak  again,  hesitated 
and  stopped.  Her  nerves  were  un- 
strung, and  some  old  echo  in  the  hoarse, 
choked  tones  sent  the  blood  with  a 
frightful  throb  to  her  heart.  Dallas 
stood  silent,  his  hat  in  his  hands,  look- 
ing down  at  her.  He  would  not  frighten 
her.  She  was  so  weak  and  frail  !  He 
could  see  the  gray  hair  and  sunken  tem- 
ples.    How  long  they  had  been  apart ! 

OGod!      Mother— mother! 

But  he  did  not  speak  a  word,  holding 
his  hat  tight  clenched,  the  burning  tears 
welling  up  slowly  into  his  eyes.  He  came 
out,  now,  trembhng,  into  the  clear  fire- 
light, where  she  could  see  him  plainly. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  Galbraiths,"  he 
said ;  "  and  I  have  been  told  that  I  was 
like  your  husband." 

She  leaned  with  one  hand  lightly  on 
the  table.  The  dulled  grating  of  the 
well-chain  was  heard  without :  the  cold 
November  daylight  fell  through  the  win- 
dows in  a  square  patch  beside  him  upon 
the  worn  carpet.  He  saw  and  heard 
even  those  trifles  in  that  moment  as  he 
waited. 

"Like  my  husband?"  as  one  in  a 
dream.  But  her  keen  eyes  read  his  face. 
There  was  a  sudden,  strange  change  in 
her  look,  as  though  some  vital  chord 
within  had  been  roughly  jarred.  <'  No  ; 
you  do  not  resemble  my  husband,"  she 
said,  with  a  strong  effort  to  regain  her 
usual  calm  courtesy.  "  But — I  will  go 
out,  if  you  will  pardon  me.  There  is  a 
likeness  to  some  one  whom  I  have  lost, 
and  it — it  pains  me."  Then  she  lost 
herself  utterly. 

"  It  was  my  httle  boy  !"  she  cried, 
flinging  her  hands  up  toward  the  picture. 
"He  is  dead  now — dead!" 


He  kneeled  down  at  her  feet  in  the 
blaze  of  the  firelight :  he  pushed  his 
hair  with  both  hands  from  his  face. 
"  Mother  !"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  <'  He 
is  not  dead.      It  is  I,  mother." 

She  made  no  sign  or  cry:  even  in  that 
moment  her  habit  of  self-control  bound 
her  strongly :  she  put  her  cold  hands  on 
his  cheeks,  drew  his  head  closer,  looking 
steadily  into  the  long-ago  familiar  eyes, 
until  her  own  grew  slowly  blind. 

«  Dallas  ?"  the  name  was  wrenched  at 
last  like  a  sob  out  of  the  heart  where  it 
had  been  so  long  hidden.     "  Dallas  !" 

Then  she  stooped  and  would  have 
kissed  him,  but  her  head  fell  a  dead 
weight  on  his  shoulder.  He  took  he 
in  his  arms  and  placed  her  on  the  chair 
rubbing  her  hands,  her  arms  and  fore 
head  like  a  frantic  man,  but  without  say- 
ing a  word.  Neither  mother  nor  son  ever 
found  the  ordinary  relief  in  words  or 
outcry  for  the  deeper  passions  in  their 
hearts.  When  her  eyes  opened  at  last 
and  the  sense  came  slowly  back  to  them, 
he  brought  her  a  goblet  of  water  from 
a  side  table.  "  It's  not  as  clear  water  as 
that  from  our  famous  well  in  Chester, 
mother,"  he  said  cheerfully,  to  reassure 
her. 

Her  face  lighted  at  that  remembrance 
of  every-day  life  :  she  drew  him  down 
with  one  hand  beside  her  as  she  lay 
back  on  the  chair,  but  then  did  not  speak 
to  him  for  a  long  time,  her  eyes  hun- 
grily wandering  over  his  face,  her  hand 
passing  with  a  pathetic  anxiety  through 
his  thick  hair,  down  his  close-shaven 
cheeks,  examining  his  hard,  muscular 
hands,  while  she  shook  her  head  with  a 
sad  smile.  "Why,  this  is  a  man,  and 
I  don't  know  him.  Dallas,  I  don't  know 
him  !  And  yet — it's  the  same  old  Dal- 
las, after  all." 

"Yes,  mother,  the  same  old  Dallas." 
If  there  were  any  way  to  make  her  feel 
and  believe  that  before  the  story  was 
told! 

"  And  you  remember  the  well  ?"  with 
a  laugh,  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Where 
you  planted  the  gourd-vine  ?  We  were 
very  happy  in  Chester.  I  think  that 
was  our  happiest  time,  Dallas  ?"  Again 
their  eyes  met  with  a  meaning  which  no 


174 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


bystander  could  have  understood.  There 
was  a  history  between  them  which 
neither  of  them  had  ever  yet  put  into 
words.     Nor  would  they  ever  do  it. 

"  That  is  all  over  now,  and  I  have 
come  back  to  you,  mother.  To-morrow 
we  will  begin  the  world  afresh."  He 
stood  up  as  he  spoke  :  he  thought  he 
could  tell  the  secret  better  standing :  he 
was  conscious  of  a  heavy  constraint 
upon  him,  paralyzing  his  thoughts,  his 
tongue  and  very  limbs. 

'•Sit  down,  dear,  sit  down,"  putting  her 
soft  hands  on  his  sleeve.  "  Do  not  go 
to  the  others.  Let  me  have  you  to  my- 
self for  a  little  while." 

« I  am  not  going.  There  is  some- 
thing I  must  say  to  you — " 

"Anything  you  will,  Dallas.  You've 
the  same  odd  turn  in  your  voice  still,  my 
son,  though  it's  coarser.  It  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  a  young  woman,  with 
my  boy  helping  me  with  the  work  again, 
to  hear  you  talk.  Oh  dear  !  I  thought 
that  sort  of  feeling  was  dead  and  gone 
for  ever  for  me .'"'  with  a  nervous,  al- 
most girlish  laugh. 

Was  this  the  time  to  open  to  her  the 
disgrace  which  she  would  count  as  worse 
than  death  ?  "  What  were  you  going  to 
tell  me  ?"  she  asked,  presently  recollect- 
ing herself 

"  Nothing,  mother.  It  can  wait."  He 
brought  a  chair  and  sat  facing  her,  while 
the  clock  ticked  slowly  through  the  hour. 
They  talked  very  little.  If  she  had  been 
curious  and  anxious  out  of  very  excess 
of  tenderness,  as  other  women  would 
have  been,  some  chance  word  might 
have  broken  the  spell.  But  the  past  or 
future  always  had  but  small  place  in 
Mrs.  Duffield's  life.  Dallas  was  there. 
The  power  of  laughter  and  tears  in  which 
the  heart  had  some  share,  which  used  to 
belong  to  Mary  Jennings,  had  come 
back  with  her  boy,  she  thought,  to  her. 
That  was  all  the  reference  she  made  to 
the  past. 

He  had  been  out  with  Doctor  Pritch- 
ard  ?  She  knew  when  he  was  a  boy 
that  he  was  born  a  naturalist :  no  won- 
der he  had  preferred  his  present  profes- 
sion to  the  law  or  medicine.  He  would 
go  on  with  the  same  sort  of  work,  she 


supposed .''  If  she  might  ad\-ise,  he 
would  do  so :  a  man  should  never  sli^jht 
a  true  vocation. 

"And  there"s  nothing  here,  Dallas, 
for  your  future — nothing  at  all.  If  you 
had  come  to  us  a  year  ago,  with  your 
strong  sense  and  coolness,  you  might 
i  have  put  a  check  to  your  dear  grand- 
mother's pig-headedness.  But  as  it  is, 
I  it  has  run  her  into  the  mire,"  with  an 
odd,  downward  gesture.  "  Me,  too. 
All  paupers  alike  !"  with  a  merry  little 
laugh.  "  Only  that  now,"  with  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling.  "/  have — I  have — " 
putting  his  hand  up  to  her  eyes  and 
holding  it  there  quietly.  The  hot  tears 
that  wet  it,  she  speaking  not  a  word, 
gave  to  Galbraith  the  idea  of  unutterable 
depths  in  his  mother's  love.  But  when 
was  a  woman  so  wanting  in  curiosity  ? 
As  though  it  were  altogether  the  natural 
and  proper  thing  for  a  boy  in  the  coal- 
pits to  be  offered  the  choice  of  the  pro- 
fessions !  Poor  little  mother !  What 
did  she  know  of  the  world  ?  and  Dallas 
kissed  her,  a  twinkle  of  amusement  in 
his  blue  eyes,  and,  being  a  man,  loved 
her  a  hundred  times  better  for  her  inno- 
cent silHness. 

But  how  could  he  tell  the  truth  to 
such  silliness  and  love  ?  Besides,  by 
some  instinct,  he  felt  that  with  all  her 
tenderness  she  was  the  coolest,  most  im- 
partial critic,  as  far  as  her  knowledge 
went,  that  he  had  ever  faced.  Her  sot. 
was  here,  a  man  and  a  gentleman  :  that 
she  seemed  to  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But — what  order  of  man  and 
gentleman  ?  He  felt  that  she  was  test- 
ing the  coin  to  know  if  it  were  genu- 
ine. She  did  not  recognize  him  by  in- 
tuition, as  Honora  had  done.  He  grew 
paintully  conscious  of  his  hardly-learned 
accent,  his  long  legs  and  arms,  and  blunt 
manner,  as  he  used  to  be  when  he  first 
left  the  prison.  He  knew  the  moment 
when  her  anxiety  on  this  score  gave  way 
to  satisfaction,  even  to  triumph. 

"  You  are  not  like  your  father  except 
in  mere  outward  feature,"  she  said,  when 
they  stood  together,  surveying  him  from 
head  to  foot.  "  That  is,  not  after  I  knew 
him.  Poor  Tom  frequented  places  which 
you  know  nothing  of,  and  low  company 


arid  rib 

You    ^-; 

there  a 
da55 — ': 
with  he 
sen  arf 
von  en 

•srha.:  I 

iceEl  L 

Ke 
f  erce  : 

Ezh:  V 


Ferh^-- 


DALLAS  GAL-BRAITH.  "5 

-L^k  o:n  h-z;.  Yon  are  the  'Jast  Dorr,  jc-  ?.— ;  yy^ 
Lther.  r^' --""->,  are  Tchu's  sec:  tc-c  are  thie  fcrl-Tm  h-ipe 
leizer:  cf  "-ha,t  cs'  a  slien  hccs-e.  as  well  as  rnj  hrie 
-;  h:5  breast  bov."  bsrtor±iz  his  ccst  a&d  5— ■occ-h:g 
it  co-sm  with  bcth  ha-rcs.  Then  she 
crew  'z^ssis.  G-Detlj.  the  cc-lor  rlsics  to 
ber  &:«-  -It  is  a  kzs  time  since  I 
did  f-^:?r  ->r  jctL"  Not-ing  cx^uld  he 
mere  sitnpie  than,  tiie  actkc  arid  the 
~e  :'rr  words  :  w^hT  shc^d  th^ej  T-r'T-Jsn  hiaa  as 
is  an      nr-thing:  had  done  before  ? 

-  I  "2  never  sire  vc'ti  p^-i.  Tii<?~!er.  as 

-iK^.i  a      Gc«d  sees  rt.e."  he  said,  hastnj  adding 

h:rse.      wiihin    himse-f    that   to-ntorrS'W.    whes 

hi  the      they  bad  beamed  to  know  each  cdha- 

'.'."hT     better,  he  wctdd  so  set  the  izatter  heibre 

-.  -  :  n-     ber  that  it  shonjd  seent  cf  no  ni-c-re  im- 

:  -d      zortznce  than  so—*  dnjcish  disease  of 

e      'a-h-.-h  he  r5<:  V^e  biees  ctrred. 


ner  e^ 

.-es 

£r^^ 

-z 

rride. 

- 

\\"ay 

do 

:e.  mr  son?" 

tt  ccn 

s--: 

tns  cf 

h. 

:   — T 

sr: 

:--"•■ 

ter 

rpeatcG.  wtt:i  an  : 
I  win  ?t)  to  mr 


fr.-=     h-' 

kn:w  t: 


'-  Yoa  wi. 


176 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


would  never  come  back  in  that  way — not 
in  that  way." 

"You're  nigh  onto  froze,  miss,"  said 
Joe,  anxiously.  "  You're  face  'pears  as 
blue  as  if  you  were  dead.  I'll  send  one 
of  the  gals  to  you  with  somethin'  warm." 

But  she  passed  him  swiftly  and  stead- 
ily up  the  stairs.  The  poor  little  thing 
had  been  so  faithful  with  her  secret,  and 
knew  herself  now  to  be  slighted  and  neg- 
lected so  cruelly.  She  rushed  into  her 
room  and  locked  and  double-locked  the 
door.  She  could  dully  hear  voices  in  the 
room  below.     Dallas  was  there. 

It  was  she  who  was  to  have  brought 
him  home.  He  had  forgotten  her  and 
her  silly  plans  !  And  she  had  been 
wasting  her  prayers  and  her  tears  on 
him  !  She  had  thought  of  him  as  lying 
dead  on  the  Plains.  He  dead  on  the 
Plains  !  She  doubted  if  he  had  ever 
been  there  at  all  :  in  all  probability  he 
had  been  in  business  over  in  Ohio.  He 
was  as  unfeeling,  cold-blooded,  as  a  frog 
— a  stone  !  He  was  their  heir — their 
son  :  now  that  he  had  come  she  was  to 
be  left  out  and  forgotten.  He  was  in 
his  rightful  place,  beside  the  very  hearth 
where  his  father  had  played  when  a  boy  ; 
they  were  giving  him  all  the  sacred  love 
they  had  kept  for  him,  and  she  was  a 
poor  outcast,  up  here,  freezing  to  death. 
She  lay  on  the  hearth-rug,  sick  with  her 
disappointment  and  rejected  love.  She 
would  not  answer  when  Lizzy  knocked  at 
the  door  with  her  hot  tea ;  nor  would  she 
get  up  to  put  any  wood  on  the  fire,  until  it 
went  out.  What  did  it  matter  .?  What 
did  anything  matter  any  more  ?  Life  was 
a  great  mistake,  a  misery.  For  the  cur- 
rent of  the  little  girl's  wishes  in  life  had 
been  checked,  and  all  of  God's  great 
world  of  order  was  but  mocking,  blind 
mischance  in  her  eyes.  And  through  all, 
the  kiss  he  had  left  upon  her  lips  was 
there,  bitter  as  gall.  Had  he  not  forgot- 
ten her  ?     Cast  her  off.'' 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

It  was  not  into  the  library  that  Hen- 
kel  brought   Dallas,   but,  by  orders,  to 


Mr.  Galbraith's  especial  room  beyond. 
The  first  sight  of  it,  as  Joe  threw  open 
the  door,  gave  him  the  idea  that  it  was 
prepared  to  welcome  some  one.  There 
was  an  indefinable  air  of  expectation  in 
the  glowing  fire,  the  early-lighted  lamps, 
the  bright-tinted  geraniums  and  roses  in 
the  windows,  making  a  frame  for  the 
winter  landscape  without,  over  which 
the  gray,  cold  evening  was  closing.  A 
tall,  spare  old  gentleman,  carefully 
dressed  with  gray  hair  and  moustache 
trimmed  in  military  fashion,  shading  his 
pale,  aquiline  features,  turned  to  meet 
him  as  the  door  opened.  "  That  is  my 
grandfather — the  man  whom  I  resem- 
ble," thought  Dallas,  with  an  inward 
laugh  at  his  mother's  partial  eye  ;  yet  he 
went  toward  him,  with  none  of  the  em- 
barrassment which,  despite  his  love, 
separated  him  from  her.  The  clothes, 
habits,  education,  out  of  which  women 
make  such  impregnable  barriers,  are 
slight  matters  between  men  who  choose 
to  meet. 

"  A  gentleman,  sir,"  said  Joe,  linger- 
ing under  pretence  of  stirring  the  fire. 

"That  will  do,  Henkel.  I  am  glad  to 
see  you,"  motioning  him  forward  with  a 
courteous  bow  ;  but  Dallas  noticed  that 
the  attempted  smile  faded  on  his  nervous 
jaws,  and  that  the  withered  hands  trem- 
bled as  they  rolled  a  chair  nearer  the 
fire.  They  both  stood  silent  until  the 
door  shut  behind  the  tardy  servant.  In 
the  moment  the  remembrance  came  back 
to  Dallas  with  a  sudden  force  of  the 
night  when  he,  a  convict,  had  stood  in 
the  library  wafching  this  old  man,  with 
Honora,  and  feeling  a  secret  kinship  and 
equality  with  them,  deeper  than  blood 
and  apart  from  all  the  others.  He  had 
come  back  to  claim  it  now. 

When  they  were  alone  he  went  up  to 
the  chair  beside  which  Mr.  Galbraith 
stood.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Dallas 
mechanically. 

"  No,  not  yet,"  putting  it  aside,  smil- 
ing. "  There  should  be  something  more 
than  mere  ceremony  when  we  meet,  I 
think.  When  I  have  told  you  my 
name — " 

"  Why  should  you  ?" 

Dallas    drew   back    startled.      "You 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


77 


knew  me  from  Doctor  Pritchard  to  be  a 
Galbraith  ?"  after  a  bewildered  moment. 

"  No." 

Their  eyes  met  for  the  first  time. 

"  There  is  but  one  of  the  Galbraiths 
whom  you  resemble,"  said  his  grand- 
father, with  a  strong  effort  at  his  ordi- 
nary composure.  "  But  I  perceived  that 
resemblance  when  I  met  you — on  the 
mountain." 

Dallas  was  silent,  Hstening.  But  his 
cheerful,  candid  eyes,  the  rugged  sim- 
plicity of  his  face  and  manner,  even  in 
repose,  seemed  to  be  like  a  fresh  well 
opened  to  the  old  man,  so  visibly  did  he 
gather  strength  and  spirit  with  each  mo- 
ment's scrutiny  of  the  boy.  He  came 
forward  a  step,  looking  at  him  in  abso- 
lute silence. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  come 
ever  since  that  day,"  he  resumed,  con- 
trolling the  agitation  in  his  voice.  "  It 
is  a  long  time.  I  knew  if  you  were  the 
man  I  thought  you,  you  would  come  at 
last.  Now  that  I  see  you,  I  know  how 
much  I  have  all  my  life  wanted  you — 
needed  you — "  He  lost  all  command  of 
himself  here.  "  You're  very  like  your 
father,"  he  said,  putting  his  hands  on 
Dallas'  broad  shoulders  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  turned  away  and  walked 
hastily  to  the  window,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  room. 

When  he  came  back  he  took  the  boy's 
hand  :  "  You  are  welcome  home,  Dallas. 
Not  for  your  father's  sake  alone,  under- 
stand. Blood  is  a  bond  that  won't  last 
if  there's  no  other.  But  I've  learned  to 
know  you  since  that  day  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  I  welcome  you  for  your  own 
sake,  as  well  as — as  his  who  is  gone." 

Dallas  colored,  like  a  boy,  with  gratifi- 
cation, having  an  old-fashioned  fear  and 
reverence  for  gray  hair.  But  he  did  not 
reply  directly,  any  kind  of  sentiment 
being  a  foreign  language  to  him,  which 
he  spoke  with  difficulty.  «  I'm  glad  that 
you  have  felt  the  need  of  me,"  he  said, 
heartily  ;  "  though  I  don't  see  how  that 
could  have  been  until  now.  Now,  I  think, 
I  can  be  of  use,"  glancing  out  at  the 
miserable  signs  of  ruin,  from  the  disor- 
dered outbuildings  to  the  yet  smouldering 
fires. 

12 


Mr.  Galbraith  drew  the  great  chaii  in 
front  of  the  fire  and  seated  the  young 
fellow  in  it:  "Before  I  take  you  to  my 
wife,  I  wish  to  show  you  something," 
fumbling  with  one  hand  in  his  pocket. 
"  I  have  never  allowed  even  Honora  to 
look  at  it.  But  you — I  thought  all  sum- 
mer that  I  would  show  it  to  you  as  soon 
as  you  came."  His  fingers  shook  as  he 
placed  a  small  morocco  case  before  Dal- 
las and  opened  it,  disclosing  an  ivory 
miniature,  the  likeness  of  a  handsome, 
ruddy-faced  man.  "You  know  who  it 
is,  dear  boy  ?"  lowering  his  voice. 

Dallas  bowed  gravely.  He  had  no 
very  tender  remembrance  of  his  father  : 
it  was  the  old  man's  sorrow  laid  thus 
bare  before  him  which  made  his  eyes 
dim  as  he  looked  at  the  face.  Mr.  Gal- 
braith took  it  from  him  gently,  polishing 
it  with  his  hand.  "  Whenever  you  wish 
to  look  at  it,  Dallas,  come  to  me.  I 
carry  it  with  me.  There  is  no  other 
likeness  of  him  after  he  was  grown  and 
— he  was  my  only  child."  He  glanced 
once  or  t^vice,  before  he  put  it  away,  from 
the  face  of  the  son  he  had  lost  to  that 
of  the  one  who  had  just  come  to  him, 
with  a  quiet  tenderness  passing  that  of 
woman. 

Dallas  was  not  blind  to  it.  He  sat, 
with  a  hand  on  each  knee,  looking  stead- 
ily into  the  fire.  There  had  been  but 
little  sign  of  emotion  in  this  meeting 
with  his  grandfather,  but  something  in 
the  few  words  and  shake  of  the  hand 
had  stirred  his  honest  soul  to  its  depths. 
The  strong  domestic  instincts  of  the 
man  asserted  themselves.  AH  his  life 
he  had  been  a  vagabond  :  to-day  he  had 
reached  home.  These  people  were  his 
people  :  the  blood  in  the  veins  of  this 
old  man  was  in  his  veins  ;  but  they  were 
old,  and  poor,  in  need  of  him  :  he  was 
strong,  had  the  world  freshly  in  his 
grasp.  His  niche  was  ready.  As  for 
that  old,  hard  Luck  of  his,  let  it  pass : 
surely  it  had  had  its  day.  When  he 
thought  fit  to  tell  them  of  it,  they  would 
know  his  innocence — as  he  knew  it. 
There  was  so  much  weight  in  the  in- 
stinct of  the  same  flesh  and  blood.  But 
now,  when  disaster  closed  in  on  them 
on  every  side,  should  he  bring  this  dis- 


178 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


grace,   unknown    before,   to   level  them 
with  the  dust  ? 

Mr.  Galbraith,  turning,  saw  that  the 
young  man  had  risen,  and  was  following 
him  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
with  a  pained,  far-reaching  look,  that  went, 
he  saw,  into  something  far  beyond  the 
present  moment.  He  halted,  then  came 
up  to  the  fire,  resting  his  arm  on  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  his  chin  on  his  hand. 
<'  You  have  some  trouble  ?"  he  said  gen- 
tly, though  he  was  not  able  to  conceal 
tlie  latent  anxiety  in  his  voice.  "  You 
must  remember  that  you  are  with  your 
own  people  now,  Dallas.  Your  troubles 
are  theirs."  ^ 

How  could  Dallas  know  the  effort 
which  the  words  cost  the  man  who  had 
held  himself  apart  all  his  Hfe,  morbidly 
afraid  of  intrusion  ?  "  I  have  no  secrets 
but  those  which  would  be  the  heavier 
for  sharing,"  he  said,  turning  away  with 
a  dogged  shake  and  something  of  his 
grandmother's  surliness.  "  It  would  be 
hard  indeed  if  your  boy's  son  brought 
trouble  to  your  door  now !  Shall  we  go 
to  find  Madam  Galbraith .?"  with  a  hasty 
change  to  an  indifferent  tone. 

"Yes."  But  he  did  not  move,  though 
Dallas  stood  waiting ;  his  powerful  figure 
and  grave,  sincere  face  in  relief  against 
tlie  gray  window  light.  Perhaps  because 
it  was  a  picture  that  pleased  him  the  old 
man  watched  it  with  such  breathless  in- 
tentness.  As  for  Dallas,  he  hardly  no- 
ticed the  silence.  The  secret  burned  in 
his  heart,  where  he  tried  to  conceal  it, 
like  vile,  extraneous  matter  in  healthy, 
quick-growing  flesh.  If  he  could  but 
utter  and  be  free  from  it !  He  had  al- 
most forgotten  it,  it  had  so  dwindled  into 
insignificance  in  the  free,  hearty,  natural 
life  of  the  last  year,  but  once  back 
among  these  stifling  houses  into  which 
men  boxed  themselves,  it  assumed  its 
old,  unwholesome,  foul  proportions.  He 
knew  his  own  strength  better  now :  it 
could  not  make  him  less  a  man  ;  but 
what  would  it  be  to  his  mother — to  these 
old  people,  whose  good  name  was  the 
only  tower  of  strength  left  them  ?  Was 
it  a  gift  for  Tom's  boy  to  bring  them  in 
their  day  of  calamity  ?  At  least  let  him 
have  a  day  to  consider.     To-morrow — 


"You  have  nothing  to  tell  me,  my 
dear  boy  ?  Nothing  ?"  The  gentle- 
man's great  love  for  and  hope  in  his 
son  seemed  with  this  eager  question  to 
come  from  his  heart  out  into  his  face, 
and  to  animate  his  whole  body,  show- 
ing themselves  in  a  strained,  painful 
wistfulness  very  pathetic  to  see  in 
any  old  man.  But  Dallas,  still  ponder- 
ing over  his  miserable  secret,  did  not 
see  it. 

"  No  ;  I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said, 
gravely. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The 
clock  without  began  to  strike  the  hour 
slowly  in  a  hard,  metallic  clang.  Dallas 
raised  his  head,  listening  with  an  anxious, 
boyish  fancy  in  his  brain.  "  If  I  do  not 
cast  off  my  burden  before  that  hour  has 
struck,  I  will  carry  it  for  ever,  and  bear 
its  weight  alone  to  the  grave,"  he 
thought.  His  grandfather  watched  him, 
as  though  he  saw  and  understood  the 
vague  fancy  from  its  birth. 

If  in  that  moment,  when  the  eyes  of 
the  old  scholar  and  gentleman,  grown 
clear  and  sad  as  Truth  in  their  long  ex- 
perience of  hfe,  were  upon  him,  Dallas 
had  dared  to  be  true  ;  if  he  had  been  brave 
enough  to  meet  the  earnest  faith  that 
silently  summoned  his  own,  the  ghosts 
of  all  the  dead  years  of  his  loneliness, 
of  his  prison,  would  have  vanished  with 
the  striking  of  that  hour,  and  returned 
to  vex  him  no  more. 

But  he  was  silent,  and  the  chance 
slipped  by  him.  "To-morrow"  —  he 
thought,  with  guilty  haste,  pushing  by 
his  fancy  as  childish — "  to-morrow,"  and 
the  last  note  rang  with  a  reverberating, 
melancholy  peal,  and  died  away. 

Mr.  Galbraith  took  his  arm  down  with 
a  stifled  sigh.  "  We  will  go  now,"  he 
said.  But  the  pathetic  tenderness  had 
gone  from  his  face.  They  crossed  the 
hall  together.  He  paused,  with  his  hand 
on  the  library  door.  "  My  wife  is  a 
strong  and  nervous  woman,"  he  said- 
"  I  do  not  wish  to  give  her  a  sudden 
shock.  It  would  be  better  that  she 
should  discover  you  herself— if  you  are 
willing .'"' 

Dallas  bowed,  and  they  entered,  the 
young  fellow  feehng  the  same  half-pity, 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


179 


half-dread  of  the  woman  he  was  going 
to  meet  that  he  might  for  an  old  tooth- 
less lioness.  She  was  walking  slowly 
up  and  down  the  dim,  long  room,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  but  halted  for 
them  to  approach.  Discerning,  perhaps, 
some  agitation  in  the  stranger's  move- 
ment or  gesture,  and  fancying  it  pro- 
ceeded from  fear  of  herself,  her  old, 
hard-scored  face  softened  and  kindled 
into  that  rare  look  with  which,  differ- 
ently from  any  other  woman,  she  was 
wont  to  welcome  strangers. 

'•  You  are  the  friend  of  Colonel  Per- 
vis,  of  whom  he  has  told  me  ?"  without 
waiting  for  them  to  speak,  and  holding 
out  her  hand  in  the  genial  Virginian 
fashion.  "  I  thank  you  for  coming.  You 
are  very  welcome."  It  was  her  whim 
to  be  gracious,  and  the  cordial  tone,  the 
sensitive,  ^fine  smile  on  the  grand  old 
face,  the  indescribably  winning  manner, 
affected  Dallas,  long  unused  to  educated 
women,  like  a  strong,  sudden  note  of 
music  from  an  unknown  instrument. 
Who  had  been  so  blind  as  to  call  this 
woman  coarse  .''  Mr.  Galbraith  fell  be- 
side his  wife,  passive  as  usual. 

"  Our  friend  belongs  to  our  own  family, 
Hannah,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  The  Dour  ?  No,  Galbraith.  It  is 
a  large  stock  and  a  strong  one,"  smiling, 
"But  I  am  the  last  of  the  Dours.  That 
fire  has  burned  down  to  a  single  flame, 
which  a  puff  of  wind  may  extinguish  for 
ever." 

"  It  is  a  fire  which  has  burned  clear 
to  the  end,"  rejoined  her  grandson,  em- 
phatically, feeling  himself  in  every  grain 
of  his  big  body  a  Dour  and  an  honest 
man.  He  met  Mr.  Galbraith's  eyes  bent 
steadily  on  him. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a 
stately  bow.  "  I  perceive  that  you  have 
heard  the  story  of  my  family.  It  is  well 
known  in  this  neighborhood."  They 
walked  together  up  the  room,  Madam 
Galbraith,  when  they  came  within  the 
glow  of  the  firelight,  inspecting  the  stran- 
ger with  her  usual  keen  scrutiny.  She 
remained  silent  while  they  seated  them- 
selves, and  Mr.  Galbraith  rang  for  lights 
— silent  so  long  that  he  leaned  forward 
and  looked  in  her  face  anxiously.     She 


drew  herself  up  erect  in  her  chair,  with 
a  long  breath. 

"  It  is  nothing,  James.  There  is  a 
strange  family  resemblance  among  you 
Galbraiths,  and — it  is  nothing."  But 
she  averted  her  eyes  from  Dallas  and 
listened  when  he  spoke,  as  though  be- 
neath the  courtesy  of  her  manner  she 
concealed  pain. 

"  You  have  taken  much  interest.  Colo- 
nel Pervis  tells  me,  in  my  poor  colony .?" 
she  said,  with  an  effort.  "  There  was 
the  ruin  there  of  the  most  promising 
scheme  ever  developed  in  this  country." 

"  I  doubt  that,  madam,"  promptly. 
Dallas  felt  his  own  ground  under  his 
feet  now,  and  was  himself  again.  "  From 
all  that  I  can  learn,  the  elements  of  fail- 
ure were  always  there.  The  fire  only 
hastened  it." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  coldly. 
"  Pray  explain  yourself." 

"  That  oil  is  of  the  poorest  quality," 
blundered  on  Dallas.  "  The  mills  should 
have  been  supplied  with  fuel  from  the 
neighborhood  to  enable  them  to  compete 
in  low  prices  with  those  higher  up  the 
river,  and  your  coal  was  suffered  to  be 
untouched  in  the  hills." 

"True.  I  did  not  think  of  that," 
she  muttered.  "  But  that  is  a  small 
matter.  I  was  in  haste  to  gain  the  great 
end." 

"  There  was  the  trouble,"  bluntly. 
"  There  was  no  one  to  direct  the  small 
matters  which  ensure  success.  No  one. 
There  were  hands,  capital,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, a  visionary  enthusiasm.  But  any 
one  can  see  there  was  no  scientific  or 
practical  knowledge.  It  is  a  terrible 
calamity  to  have  brought  upon  those 
people.  There  has  been  great  suffering 
among  them — great  suffering  !"  speaking 
in  a  stern  undertone  and  looking  fix- 
edly in  the  fire,  his  thoughts  being  with 
the  people  far  more  than  with  her. 

The  angry  heat  had  been  rising  slowly 
in  Madam  Galbraith's  face.  "  If  I  have 
unwillingly  brought  suffering  upon  them, 
I  have  atoned  for  it,"  she  said.  "  You 
do  not  understand,  probably,  being  a 
stranger  in  the  place,  what  I  have  done 
to  atone."  She  sat  fiercely  silent  and 
motionless,  the  firelight  shining  on  her 


i8o 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


pale  face  and  gray  hair  :  she  was  proudly- 
conscious  in  every  throb  of  her  heart 
that  she  was  a  beggar,  that  she  had  sacri- 
ficed her  all  to  keep  her  honor  unspotted ; 
but  she  was  too  proud  to  boast  of  it. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  reflect  upon  you 
personally,  madam,"  said  Dallas,  gently. 
"  I  did  not  know  even  that  you  were  the 
only  originator  of  the  scheme.  I  under- 
stood you  had  given  up  your  property  to 
liquidate  your  debts  to  these  people. 
That  was  all  proper  and  right,  of  course. 
But  unfortunately  real  estate  is  not 
money,  and  does  not  supply  their  imme- 
diate need.  Their  distress  has  been  ex- 
treme, as  no  doubt  you  know." 

She  rose  impatiently  and  began  again 
her  restless  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
Now  she  knew  the  fire  had  been  sent 
expressly  from  God  to  humble  her — 
Hannah  Dour.  Great  had  been  her  pun- 
ishment, and  her  atonement  not  small. 
But  this  man  set  aside  both  as  of  the 
same  import  as  the  lack  of  clothes  and 
food  among  those  stolid  Dutch  boors. 
Any  other  young  fellow  she  would  have 
dismissed  contemptuously  ;  but  a  vague 
something  in  this  man's  voice  and  words 
touched  her  with  a  mysterious  power,  as 
though  it  was  herself  that  met  her  in 
another  form. 

"  My  friends,"  she  said,  with  ironical 
gentleness,  "have  not  pressed  home  upon 
me  the  wants  of  these  persons.  They 
tliought  it  better  to  convince  me  that 
the  amount  of  sacrifice  I  made  for  them 
was  Quixotic  and  unreasonable." 

"  It  appeared  to  me  only  just,"  said 
Dallas,  simply. 

"  Your  ideas  of  honesty  are  singularly 
strict,  young  sir !"  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Honesty  !"  Dallas  rose  to  his  feet, 
the  blood  rushing  to  his  heart,  leaving 
his  face  deadly  pale ;  again  he  caught  the 
sight  of  the  wistful,  mild  eyes  keeping 
their  steady  watch  upon  him.  In  a  mo- 
ment they  restored  him  to  himself.  He 
answered  them  with  a  smile.  "  I  never 
tested  my  honesty,"  he  said,  in  the  dry, 
humorous  voice  which  had  become  lately 
habitual  to  him.  "  It  never  was  strongly 
tempted.  But  I  inherited  it,  and  the 
quahty  should  be  good." 

Madam  Galbraith  made  another  turn, 


and  then  beginning  to  fear  that  she  had 
been  inhospitable,  she  came  back  and 
resumed  her  seat  as  Mrs.  Duffield  en- 
tered the  room.  Dallas  glanced  hastily 
at  the  opening  door,  his  color  rising  :  it 
was  not  his  mother  whom  he  expected 
to  see. 

"  Colonel  Pervis  mentioned  some  of 
your  views  as  to  the  future  establish- 
ment of  these  people  to  me,"  she  re- 
sumed, with  a  distant  gravity.  "  They 
showed  excellent  judgment  for  a  person 
of  your  age — excellent.  Have  you  con- 
sidered the  probable  worth  of  the  coal- 
beds  t  The  Dour  land  is  a  mine  of 
wealth." 

"  It  is  good  arable  land  "  said  Dallas, 
thoughtfully :  "  very  good.  As  to  the 
coal — it  hardly  ranks  so  high  as  that  a 
few  miles  farther  up  the  river.  I  can 
bring  you  specimens  of  both,  and  ex- 
plain the  difference." 

"You  appear  to  have  made  the  subject 
an  especial  study  ?"  dryly. 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "Necessa- 
rily," with  a  half  laugh :  "  I  was  a 
miner." 

She  was  turning  over  one  of  her 
books  of  maps  as  he  spoke,  and  con- 
tinued to  do  so,  but  a  secret  significance 
in  his  answer  seemed,  in  the  silence 
which  followed,  to  creep  gradually  into 
her  mind :  with  her  finger  on  the  book 
she  looked  up  slowly  like  one  who  hears 
a  far-off  call.  Then  she  glanced  at 
Dallas  with  a  terrified,  wild  doubt,  a  wild 
denial  in  her  face.  The  book  fell  from 
her  trembhng  hand  to  the  floor :  her 
husband  came  quietly  and  stood  behind 
her  chair. 

"  Galbraith .?"  she  muttered  to  herself, 
"  Galbraith  ?"  Then  she  raised  herself 
slowly  and  leaned  with  both  hands  on 
the  table.  Dallas  rose  and  came  toward 
her  where  the  light  fell  full  upon  his 
face.  "  You  were  a  miner  .-*  Where  ?" 
she  said. 

"  In  the  coal-pits.     At  Scranton." 

"James  !" 

"  I  am  here,  Hannah." 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  a  physician  might 
have  done  before  he  answered  her.  The 
hard  contour  of   her    face   was    harder 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


iSl 


than  ever  before,  yet  there  was  a  cer- 
tain terrible  womanish  pallor  about  the 
fierce  eyes  and  stern,  set  mouth.  It 
deepened  as  she  looked  at  Dallas,  and 
at  his  mother's  fair,  beaming  face  as  she 
came  to  him  and  put  her  arm  about  his 
neck. 

»•  Do  you  not  know,  Hannah  ?  I  told 
you  there  was  a  new  life  coming  to  us 
which  would  atone  for  all  the  past.  I 
have  brought  you  Tom's  boy." 

'•  Why,  /  told  you  he  was  not  dead !" 
loudly,  with  a  flash  of  triumph. 

There  was  an  embarrassed  pause. 
"He  is  very  like  our  son,  I  think,  my 
dear.  Before  he — went  from  us,"  said 
her  husband  gently. 

jMadam  Galbraith's  drj-  lips  moved,  but 
she  did  not  speak.  She  motioned  Dal- 
las closer:  "You  are  sure  there  is  no 
imposture  in  the  young  man,  James  ? 
You  have  received  a  proper  account  of 
his  hfe  from  him  ?  He  should  have 
brought  —  brought  credentials."  Then, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  held  out 
her  hands  to  him:  "  My  son  1"  she  cried, 
feebly,  >•  my  son  !" 

When  she  touched  Dallas  and  saw 
clearly  her  dead  boy  again  in  him.  she 
pushed  him  away,  trembling  violently — 
"  Go,  go,  I  want  to  be  alone." 

At  the  door  Dallas  turned,  looking 
back  at  the  woman  who,  through  all  her 
life,  had  played  a  man's  rough  part,  and 
he  saw  that  she  had  fallen  on  her  knees 
to  the  floor,  but  her  face  was  covered 
with  her  hands  and  hidden  from  him  by 
her  gray  hair. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

CoLOXEL  Pervis  walked  up  and 
dov.-n  the  brightly-lighted  hbrary  late 
that  evening,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Where 
is  the  boy  ?  God  bless  him  !  Where 
is  he  ?  I  little  thought  who  I  was  bring- 
ing to  you  I"  stopping  beside  Mr.  Gal- 
braith,  his  red  face  beaming  down  on 
him.  "  And  you  think  he  resembles  his 
father,  eh  ?  Now — do  you  know  ? — he 
»eems  to  me  altogether  different.     Tom 


was  a  yielding  fellow,  j-et  not  easily  read  ; 
he  had  a  liglit,  playful  way  of  slurring  and 
glossing  over  his  own  opinions,  so  that 
you  never  could  be  sure  of  them.  But 
this  boy  is  like  a  bit  of  limestone  rock. 
You  know  him  all  througli  when  you 
see  his  face.  That  singular  downright- 
ness  strikes  you  at  once  in  him.  He 
has  it  from  Madam  Galbraith,  I  think." 

Mr.  Galbraith  listened  eagerl)-.  and 
with  evident  great  pleasure :  "  You're 
right,  Pervis,  you're  right :  no  man  could 
doubt  a  face  hke  that.  Yes,  he  is  like 
his  grandmother,"  with  an  almost  boyish 
laugh  of  keen  amusement.  "And  tliere 
will  be  ahttle  rubbing  between  the  rocks, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  before  long." 

"All  the  better!  all  the  better!"  be- 
ginning his  walk  up  and  down  again. 
"  She  needs  something  to  rouse  her. 
She'll  live  her  youth  over  again  in  this 
boy.  and  so  will  you.  By  George  !  It 
seems  as  if  the  old  times  had  come 
back  to  this  house,  after  all.  The  verj- 
sen'ants  are  wild  about  it  down  below. 
The  fire's  forgotten.  I  ought  to  have  been 
here  at  the  discovery.  But  I  was  called 
down  to  the  village  suddenly,  and  when 
I  got  back  it  was  Lizzy  that  told  me. 
The  murder  was  out.  She  has  got  up 
a  supper  fit  for  a  prince,  and  when  I 
stopped  at  the  door,  getting  a  sniff  of 
the  partridges,  she  came  out,  her  face 
red  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes  for  joy : 
she  said,  'It  is  the  heir  that  has  come 
back.  Colonel  Pervis.  His  name  is 
Dallas.  I  haven't  seen  him  yet,  but 
they  say  he's  difi"erent  from  any  of  the 
Galbraiths.  Better  than  any  of  them, 
quite  diff"erent.  Like  a  king  among 
them.'  By  George !  you  might  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  breath  !" 

Mr.  Galbraith  listened  to  the  story 
with  a  curiously  grave  attention,  but 
made  no  answer.  The  Colonel's  excited 
brain  went  off  speedily  on  another  track. 
"  This  boy  has  no  money,  eh  ?  Oh.  of 
course  not,  poor  fellow  !  What  a  cursed 
beast  that  Duffield  must  have  been ! 
Only  if  he  had  happened  to  have  a  few 
odd  thousands,  they'd  have  come  in 
luckily  just  now.  Where  is  he,  by  the 
way  ?"' 

"In  his  own  room.    His  grandmotlier 


[82 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


is  with  him.  Pervis,"  he  continued  after 
a  pause,  with  the  embarrassed  manner 
in  which  he  always  broached  a  subject, 
"  therv,  is  a  matter  of  business  which  I 
would  hke  arranged  before  Dallas  comes 
into  the  family  councils.  It  will  be  his 
wish  that  Madam  Galbraith's  engage- 
ment shall  be  kept :  the  land  must  go. 
But  the  house  in  which  my  wife  and  son 
were  born  I  cannot  part  with.  You 
shall  bid  it  in  for  me,  with  two  or  three 
acres  immediately  about  it." 

The  Colonel's  face  brightened.  "  Can 
you  do  it  ?     Your  annuity — " 

"  It  will  take  it  all.  But  it  will  be 
our  home  now,  to  the  end — oiirs^''  with 
an  unconscious  emphasis  on  the  word. 
"And  I'll  go  to  work.  I  can  make 
enough  by  my  pen  to  support  us.  I 
never  had  a  wife  and  boy  to  work  for 
before." 

Pervis  listened  attentively  without  the 
expected  outburst.  "  Thank  God  !"  he 
said,  after  a  while,  with  a  good  deal  of 
quiet  feeling.  "  You  don't  know  what 
it  cost  me,  Galbraith,  to  see  the  old 
house  taken  from  you,  and  to  think  I 
had  been  such  a  poor,  thriftless  devil  I 
had  no  help  to  give.  I'll  attend  to  it. 
You  want  it  kept  quiet  between  us,  I 
understand  ?" 

"Yes :  Madam  Galbraith  would  doubt- 
less object." 

"  Hush !  she  is  here  !"  opening  the 
door  for  the  old  lady,  who  came  in  with 
a  stately  step.  One  point  in  her  dress 
caught  the  eyes  of  both  men  as  soon  as 
she  entered.  It  was  a  shawl  which  Tom 
had  given  her — one  of  his  few  presents, 
for  he  was  not  thoughtful  about  such 
trifles.  The  day  he  left  them  to  marry 
Mary  Jennings  she  had  folded  it  away, 
and  it  never  had  left  its  hiding-place 
until  to-night. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  with  us  to- 
night, old  friend  !"  she  said,  as  the  Colo- 
nel shook  her  hand,  looking  into  her  ra- 
diant face. 

"  Why,  you  are  yourself  again,  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  !  It  reminds  me  of  the 
days  when  Hannah  Dour  in  her  stiff 
brocade  and  I  in  knee-breeches  led  the 
dances  in  this  very  room  ;  or  the  night 
when    Master   Tom   was   baptized.      I 


think  that  was  the  crowning-point  of  your 
life.  Lord  !  what  a  night  that  was  !  I 
never  sat  down  to  such  a  supper.  What 
an  inheritance  that  child  was  born  to  !" 

"  My  son  Dallas,"  with  a  proud  lin- 
gering on  the  words,  "has  no  inherit- 
ance but  honor.  And  that  he  gives  to 
us,  as  we  to  him.  I  have  had  a  long 
talk  with  the  lad,"  as  she  seated  herself, 
with  a  certain  majestic  port  not  used  of 
late.  "  He  is  not  altogether  a  Dour. 
That  is  better,"  with  a  half  sigh.  '^  I 
was  glad  to  find  you  in  him,  James," 
looking  at  her  husband.  "  But  he  is 
headstrong — headstrong.  He  needs  con- 
trol. Well,  well,  the  boy  is  young.  He 
has  been  giving  me  the  history  of  his 
life."  Mr.  Galbraith  turned  suddenly 
toward  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Poor  fellow !  He  has  had  hard 
times,  no  doubt,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"And  he  gave  you  the  history  of  his 
life .?" 

"  Of  course  ;  I  asked  it  from  him. 
It's  a  sad  story,  though  he  makes  the 
best  of  it.  In  the  coal-pits,  in  Philadel- 
phia, among  medical  students,  down  at 
a  fishing  village  on  the  coast,  and  in  the 
stone-quarry  here.  I  imagine  he  offered 
a  strange  contrast  to  the  poor  people 
with  whom  he  was  thrown,  everywhere — 
like  a  prince  in  disguise.  There  are 
some  other  particulars  which,  he  said, 
he  would  give  to  us  all  to-morrow.  The 
village,  by  the  way,  was  Manasquan, 
and  he  knew  Miss  Byrne  there.  He 
asked  to  be  shown  to  her  room  to  see 
her.  I  liked  that.  The  Dours  were 
always  noted  for  their  gentle  considera- 
tion for  the  poor.  Where  is  Honora  ?" 
looking  hastily  around,  as  if  she  missed 
something. 

"  She  is  not  well,"  her  uncle  replied. 
"  She  will  come  down  later  in  the  even- 
ing. Has  any  one  remembered  to  order 
up  wine  ?  We  will  drink  the  lad's  health 
in  some  of  the  old  hock  we  put  away 
when  Tom  was  born,  Hannah." 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  the  Colo- 
nel broke  out,  eagerly.  "  I'll  go  myself. 
I  know  the  very  bottles." 

It  was  Tom's  room  which  they  gave 
to  his   son.     The  largest  and  warmest 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


183 


chamber  in  the  house,  always  kept  in 
perfect  order,  as  though  its  occupant 
might  return  to-morrow,  but  in  which  no 
one  had  slept  since  he  left  it.  For  days 
before  Mr.  Galbraith  had  been  busy  in 
it,  adding  to  it  such  fanciful,  dainty  fur- 
nishing from  his  own  store  as  he  thought 
might  please  a  young  man's  fancy. 

Dallas,  when  Madam  Galbraith  left 
him  alone,  took  quick,  observant  note  of 
it  all.  His  valise,  which  they  had  sent 
for,  lay  on  the  floor,  and  he  proceeded 
gravely  to  dress  in  a  fine  suit  of  gray 
cloth,  the  shirt  collar  turned  down  from 
the  shapely  throat  and  knotted  with 
black  ribbon,  remembering  how  some 
one,  whom  he  did  not  name,  had  thought 
such  a  garb  artistic. 

The  mellow  light  of  the  room,  the  soft 
carpet,  the  luxurious  toilet  appointments, 
had  a  strange  effect  upon  Dallas.  They 
were  his,  and  they  barred  him  inside  of 
a  new  class.  Out  on  the  Plains  he  had 
been  with  gentlemen,  and  met  them  as 
their  equal ;  but  that  was  under  the 
broad  sky,  where  all  God's  creatures 
stand  on  one  plane.  But  this  was  in 
civilization,  where  the  invisible  lines 
were  strictly  drawn.  The  long  fight  was 
over  ;  he  stood  on  a  level  with  educated 
men  and  women  :  inside  of  their  world 
at  last,  however  little  fitted  for  it.  When 
he  had  dressed,  he  went  out  through  the 
long  halls  to  find  Lizzy,  one  or  two  ser- 
vants escorting  him,  others  peeping  at 
him  through  half-open  doors — a  welcome 
on  every  face.  It  was  home — his  home. 
Through  the  windows  he  passed  he 
could  catch  glimpses  of  the  wide  moonlit 
sweep  of  valley  and  mountain.  It  was 
the  Dour  land.  He  meant  some  day  to 
buy  it  back  again — every  acre.  There 
was  nothing  which  he  was  not  strong 
and  patient  enough  to  do  to-night. 

Yet  under  all  was  the  picture  of  a 
group  of  fishermen's  cabins  :  in  one  of 
them  a  little  homely  chamber,  opening 
out  into  pine  woods,  the  sound  of  the 
sea  far  off^a  chamber  whose  rude  fur- 
nishing had  been  made  for  him  by  friendly 
hands.  There  was  not  one  of  these 
cabins  whose  threshold  to-day  he  would 
be  suffered  to  pass  :  not  one  of  these 
men's  hands  which  would  not  now  point 


at  him  for  a  convict  and  a  thief.  No 
money,  no  strength  nor  patience,  could 
buy  back  the  power  to  enter  that  poor 
little  room  again  as  he  had  left  it.  Lizzy 
met  him  outside  of  the  housekeeper's 
room  and  drew  him  hastily  in,  shutting 
the  door. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  Why  did 
you  seek  for  me  ?  Oh,  Dallas,  you  have 
risked  it  all !"  But  she  could  hardly 
breathe  in  her  joy  and  triumph.  "  It's 
all  over — what  I've  worked  for  so  long. 
You  have  come  home  at  last." 

"  Yes,  I've  come  home  at  last," 
quietly. 

"  There  is  little  to  inherit,"  looking 
anxiously  into  his  face.  "  But  this  is 
your  rightful  place." 

"Do  you  remember  that  little  room  at 
Manasquan,  which  the  people  fitted  up 
for  me,  Lizzy  ?"  abruptly. 

"Yes." 

"  I  never  can  go  back  there.    Never." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?"  angrily. 
"  You  are  ungrateful  to  God  for  all  He 
has  given  you.  Why,  the  whole  house 
is  filled  with  joy  and  thanksgiving  be- 
cause He  has  been  so  good  to  you,  and 
you  cry  out  for  that  trifle,  which  you 
cannot  have." 

"  I  know.  There  have  been  times, 
even  to-night,  when,  because  I  could  not 
have  it,  this  house  has  been  intolerable 
to  me.  I'd  rather  go  back  once  more  to 
old  Graah  and  the  fishermen,  and  know 
they'd  clap  me  on  the  shoulder  and  make 
the  friend  of  me  they  did  then,  than  in- 
herit all  this  estate  that  is  lost.  But  I 
can  never  do  that." 

"  No,  you  can  never  do  it.  So,  for 
God's  sake  let  it  go  !  It  is  better  that 
all  remembrance  of  it  should  pass  out 
of  your  hfe.  It's  the  sight  of  me  that 
has  done  it  I  will  go  back  to  Mana- 
squan." 

"  No,  Lizzy,  you  shall  not  leave  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  There  is  not  an  hour 
which  is  not  fraught  with  danger,  now 
that  you  have  acknowledged  your  ac- 
quaintance with  me.  Any  chance  word 
may  betray  all." 

"  You  do  not  think  I  am  going  to  live 
always  under  cover  of  this  lie  ?  I  will 
tell  my  whole  story  to-morrow.    I  wanted 


i84 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


to  draw  my  breath  first.  It  is  a  hard 
blow  to  give  them — my  mother." 

Lizzy  stared  into  his  face  aghast.  Then 
she  recovered  herself.  "It  is  a  blow 
which  you  will  never  give,  Dallas  Gal- 
braith.  I  know  you  better  than  you  do 
yourself.  You  are  dogged  and  obstinate, 
but  you  never  hurt  a  worm.  That  old 
Manasquan  life  is  dead  to  you — dead. 
You  will  not  bring  up  its  ghost  for  no 
purpose  but  to  torture  these  women?" 
putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Dallas  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  pres- 
ently wiped  his  forehead,  looking  down 
at  the  little  woman  from  his  height  in 
despair. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  had  stayed  out  on 
the  Plains,  and  not  tangled  myself  up 
with  a  parcel  of  women  !  Why  can't 
they  look  at  a  thing  in  a  common-sense, 
practical  way  ?  There  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  torture  them.  I  am  innocent. 
I  feel  like  a  baited  bull  with  women, 
Lizzy!      I  don't  understand  them." 

Lizzy  bit  her  lip.  "  Oh  yes,  you  do, 
Dallas  !  You've  great  power  over  wo- 
men. There  is  Honora.  I  do  not  know 
when  you  knew  her  ;  but  I  know  this," 
she  paused,  lowered  her  voice,  and  ended 
the  sentence  in  a  whisper. 

Dallas  blushed,  as  Honora  would  have 
done.  "  Whether  it  be  true  or  not,  yoti 
have  no  right  to  tell  me  that,"  quickly. 
<'  It  is  her  secret." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  am  wrong.  It  is 
no  difference  whether  it  is  my  love  for  you 
that  makes  me  anxious  or  not.  Take 
your  own  way,"  holding  his  wrist  in  both 
her  hands.  "See,  Dallas  !  I've  come  to 
love  you  as  if  you  were  my  son  in  all 
these  years,  and  now  you  will  undo  all 
that  I  have  done.  But  go  on — go  on  ! 
It  does  not  matter  to  you  if  you  break 
that  girl's  heart,"  watching  him  furtively. 
"  She  has  grown  thin  and  pale  waiting 
and  waiting  for  you.  But  what  of  that  t 
Your  whim  will  be  gratified." 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  not  speak 
again  to  me  of  Miss  Dundas,  Lizzy," 
with  the  old  quiet  authority,  which  no- 
body resisted.  But  Lizzy  saw  the  red 
spot  burning  in  his  cheek,  and  knew  her 
purpose  was  gained. 

"  Go  on,  now  ;  they  will  be  impatient 


for  you.  You  had  better  tell  them  to- 
night," giving  her  nail  an  additional  blow 
on  the  head.  "  It  is  a  pity  to  give  them 
even  this  little  glimpse  of  happiness 
after  all  their  trouble.  Oh.  Dallas !  if 
you  but  knew  what  you  were  to  your 
mother  or  —  Look  at  poor  Honora's 
worn  face  to-night,  and  see  what  you 
read  there." 

"  I  shall  not  tell  them  until  to-mor- 
row. Good-night,  Lizzy,''  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Lizzy's  eyes  sparkled  when  the  door 
shut  behind  him.  "  He's  safe,"  nod- 
ding as  she  pinned  her  working  napkin 
in  front  of  her  again.  "  The  whole 
estate  waiting  for  him  last  year  would 
not  move  him,  but  that  silly  girl's  pale 
face  will  do  it.  Dallas  is  as  stubborn  as 
a  mule  against  fate,  but  he's  a  fool  in 
the  hands  of  a  woman." 

Meanwhile  Dallas,  going  through  the 
wide  halls,  felt  the  pulse  throbbing  in 
every  vein  of  his  body.  He  had  not  a 
doubt  of  Lizzy's  story.  He  had  never 
learned  the  conventional  rule  that  women 
must  be  sought,  pursued,  wooed.  The 
man  was  born  for  the  woman— the  woman 
for  the  man.  Honora  loved  him.  That 
seemed  to  him  natural  and  right.  Did  he 
not  love  her  ?  And  the  poor  lonely  girl 
had  watched  and  waited  for  him  1  Well, 
had  he  not  thought  of  her  constantly  out 
on  the  Plains?— constantly— quite  for- 
getting the  digging  and  the  hard  study  and 
the  buffalo  hunts,  and  Pritchard's  stories, 
and  his  own  frohcs  with  the  younger 
men,  which  had  put  her  out  of  his  head 
for  weeks  together. 

"  Pale  ?  Worn  ?"  He  hurried  for- 
ward, his  hand  almost  trembling  when 
he  turned  the  latch  of  the  library  door. 
He  would  go  to  her  before  them  all  and 
claim  her  as  his.  She  never  should 
know  sorrow  or  pain  again. 

But  when  he  opened  the  door,  her 
face  was  not  among  those  which  turned 
to  meet  him.  The  room  had  taken  on 
itself  a  new  cheerfulness  to-night,  never 
seen  there  before.  Colonel  Pervis  thought 
as  he  bustled  about,  making  himself 
high  master  of  ceremonies.  Even  Dal- 
las knew  what  happy  hearts  he  had  made 
among   the    group    gathered  about    the 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


165 


bright  fire.  They  were  all  there  :  Ma- 
dam Galbraith  triumphant  in  her  chair 
of  state  :  his  grandfather  examining  his 
famous  old  fowling-piece,  which  he  meant 
to  bestow  on  Dallas,  listening  with  a 
quiet  smile  to  the  ColoneFs  jokes ;  his 
mother,  for  once  thoroughly  alive,  cheer- 
ful, saucy,  winning ;  Dour  and  his 
chubby  little,  over-dressed  wife ;  and  Mr. 
Rattlin,  first  in  one  corner  and  then  an- 
other, telling  the  story  of  his  good 
fortune. 

Madam  Galbraith  stroked  her  heavy 
chin  wlien  she  heard  it,  trying  to  con- 
ceal her  gratification.  "  Half  of  his 
salary,  eh  ?  I  am  very  glad  this  imme- 
diate relief  has  come  to  you,  Mr.  Rat- 
tlin, and  that  it  has  come  through  this 
source.  I  recognize  more  and  more  of 
the  Dour  traits  in  my  son  Dallas.  Have 
you  heard  this  story,  James  ?"  raising 
her  voice  and  repeating  it  for  the  benefit 
of  the  whole  party.  '•  I  will  assist  you 
in  3-our  choice  of  a  farm,  Mr.  Rattlin, 
and  advise  Mrs.  Rattlin  how  to  set  mat- 
ters in  order,"  she  added  aside  at  the 
close. 

They  all  waited  for  Dallas,  watching 
the  door,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  thrill 
and  hush  among  them,  as  though  they 
had  not  seen  him  before,  when  he  came 
in  among  them.  An  unusual,  powerful 
face.  Dour  thought  as  he  rose  to  meet 
him,  full  of  Nature's  original  meanings  : 
even  the  clothes  seemed  to  have  less 
power  to  diminish  the  natural  expression 
of  the  free,  athletic  figure  than  they  had 
upon  men  in  town.  The  contagion  of 
excitement  had  roused  Dour  into  un- 
usual heartiness,  but  he  shook  hands 
with  Dallas  the  second  time  with  cordial 
pleasure,  because  he  found  him  to  be  the 
manner  of  man  he  was. 

She  was  not  there,  Dallas  thought, 
glancing  around.  She  was  too  ill  to 
come.     This  was  his  doing  ! 

Supper  was  announced.  "We  are 
waiting  for  Miss  Dundas,"  said  Madam 
Galbraith,  rising.  "  Send  to  her  room 
to  know  if  she  is  able  to  come  down." 
A  colder  chill  crept  to  Dallas'  heart. 
Before  the  servant  could  obey  her,  how- 
ever, the  door  opened.  , 

« I  am  here,  John,"  said  a  sweet,  clear  I 


voice,  and  Honora,  radiant  as  youth 
itself,  a  rose  in  her  hair,  and  the  richest 
and  most  dazzling  of  robes  setting  off 
her  piquant  beauty,  came  floating  up  tlie 
room.  "  Will  nobody  present  me  to  my 
cousin  Dallas  .''"  she  said,  stopping  with 
outstretched  hands  before  him,  and  look- 
ing up  into  his  face  like  a  bewildering 
fairy. 

Dallas  gave  one  quick  glance  over  the 
little  figure— saw  the  cool,  observant 
eyes,  the  healthy  pink  cheeks,  the  little, 
soft,  peach-tinted  hands  held  out  steadily : 
then  he  took  one  of  them  in  his  own 
cold  fingers,  and  let  it  fall,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  hot  bit  of  iron. 

"Honora  is  so  frank  and  cordial," 
whispered  Gerty,  admiringly,  to  Mrs. 
Duffield.  "  It  is  sweet  in  her  to  dress 
her  hair  with  flowers  and  to  put  on  her 
Paris-made  dress  in  honor  of  Mr.  Gal- 
braith. It's  the  very  apple  of  Honora's 
eye — that  brocade."  For  Gerty,  who 
wanted  now  with  all  her  heart  to  see  all 
the  poor  young  girls  married,  thought 
she  might  speak  a  good  word  for  Nora 
with  this  new  hero's  mother.  Mrs.  Duf- 
field gathered  herself  up  from  her  loung- 
ing attitude  and  favored  Miss  Dundas 
with  an  unusually  keen  survey.  The  red 
on  that  young  lady's  cheeks  was  oddly 
stationary,  and  she  had  put  on  with  her 
brocade  a  certain  gayety  and  aplomb 
which  were  as  foreign  to  the  simple  girl 
as  would  have  been  the  cruel  suavity  of 
Lady  Macbeth's  welcome  to  her  guests. 
The  mother's  jealous  eye  found  in  it 
miching  malicho  for  her  stupid  boy. 

"  You  are  late  in  welcoming  your 
cousin,  Honora,"  said  Madam  Galbraith, 
severely. 

Miss  Dundas  had  walked  toward  the 
fire,  and  was  engaged  in  teasing  a  Mal- 
tese cat  on  the  rug  with  the  toe  of  her 
slipper :  she  looked  up  brightly  at  this, 
however.  "  Oh,  /  welcomed  him  long 
ago.  Down,  Barba !  Poor  pussy ! 
Cousin  Dallas,"  she  added,  indifferently, 
as  she  stroked  the  cat,  "  was  here  a  year 
ago,  and  I  accidentally  discovered  who 
he  was." 

"  Dallas  made  himself  known  to  you 
a  year  ago !"  exclaimed  Madam  Gal- 
braith, towering  fiercely  over  her.  whue 


1 86 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


his  mother  sat  listening,  her  eyes  on  the 
floor,  but  growing  suddenly  very  pale. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  discovered  him.  I  re- 
member that  I  urged  him  quite  earn- 
estly to  remain  with  you,  dear  aunt. 
But  he  declined.  He  was  going  on  an 
expedition  for — coal,  I  believe,  and  when 
he  had  done  with  coal  he  intended  to 
come  back  to  his  mother  and  family. 
Go  away,  Barba.  I  can't  play  any 
more,"  knitting  her  brows  anxiously  as 
she  brushed  off  the  marks  of  his  paws 
from  her  skirt.  There  was  a  painful 
silence. 

"  I  hope  you  found  the  coal  success- 
fully, Cousin  Dallas,"  said  Honora,  cour- 
teously, smiling  and  turning  her  hard, 
brown  eyes  full  on  his.  "  I  used  to  be 
very  anxious  about  you— dreadfully  anx- 
ious !  It  was  quite  a  rehef,  I  assure 
you,  to  hear  to-day  that  you  had  arrived 
safely,"  with  a  civil  little  bow  as  she 
turned  to  Gerty ;  and,  dismissing  the 
matter  as  finished,  began  to  explain,  in 
answer  to  her  queries,  that  the  pansies 
on  her  sash  were  embroidered  and  not 
woven. 

"There  is  something  here  that  I  do 
not  understand." 

« It  is  nothing,  Madam  Galbraith," 
said  Mrs.  Duffield,  rising.  "Did  not 
John  say  that  supper  was  served  ?  Dal- 
las, give  your  arm  to  your  cousin  Ho- 
nora." Which  Dallas  did,  walking  stiffly 
down  the  hall  in  grave  silence,  while  the 
little  girl's  silk  rustled  and  glistened  at 
his  side,  and  her  civil  voice  went  on 
chattering  what  he  called  unfeeling  bal- 
derdash, and  now  and  then  a  milky 
breath  touched  his  face.  He  would  like 
to  have  struck  off  the  soft,  round  arm  and 
the  hand  that  peeped  out  from  its  laces 
and  nestled  on  his  wrist,  and  have  rushed 
away  where  he  would  never  see  her 
again.  Out  on  the  Sierra  Madre,  Dallas 
had  stood  his  ground  with  a  hearty  cheer 
when  the  Comanches  attacked  their  little 
party  and  the  odds  were  hopeless,  and 
had  come  out  of  the  fight  as  fresh  as 
though  he  had  been  taking  a  plunge  in 
the  breakers.  But  the  light  touch  of 
this  Httle  hand,  this  shrill,  polite,  treble 
ringing  in  his  ears,  unmanned  him.  The 
old  hurt,  neglected  feeling  of  his   boy- 


hood choked  him :  he  knew  himself  to 
be  ignorant,  a  boor  ;  the  tears  of  morti- 
fication and  self-contempt  were  not  fai 
from  his  eyes.  Loved  him  ?  This  pure, 
dainty  lady,  whose  every  new  word  or 
motion  marked  more  and  more  sharply 
the  gulf  between  them  !  Why,  in  spite 
of  her  courtesy,  he  saw  plainly  that  she 
had  forgotten  that  he  was  alive.  And 
he,  hke  a  vain  puppy,  had  believed  her 
ill  and  pining  for  his  sake  ! 

When  they  were  seated  side  by  side 
there  were  one  or  two  points  which  Ho- 
nora made  clear  for  herself,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  first  buzz  and  noise  about 
them.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  he 
had  come  back  at  the  appointed  time. 
There  was  a  hope  in  that.  Perhaps  she 
wronged  him  altogether  ! 

"You  have  been  down  at  the  wells 
for  several  days,  Colonel  Pervis  tells 
me  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  came  back  the  night  of  the 
fire.  I  would  have  come  to  the  farm 
sooner  to  see — my  mother.  But  I  was 
needed  down  there.  To-day  was  the  first 
tinne  I  thought  I  could  be  spared." 

The  hard  glitter  went  out  of  her  eyes. 
"The  night  of  the  fire  ?  That  was  just 
a  year  since  you  left  us,"  her  voice  fal- 
tering a  little. 

"  About  a  year,  I  believe,"  indiffer- 
ently. Why  was  she  trying  to  make 
civil  talk  for  him  ?  He  ought  to  thank 
God  if  he  never  saw  her  face  or  heard 
her  voice  again  ! 

"  Lizzy,"  she  began  again,  writing  with 
her  fork  nervously  on  her  plate — "  Lizzy 
and  Mrs.  Beck  said  you  promised  to  re- 
turn in  a  year.  They  were  quite  cer- 
tain you  would  come." 

"  It  was  exceedingly  foolish  in  Lizzy 
to  keep  any  such  arrangement  in  mind," 
impatiently.  "A  man  cannot  hold  to 
such  visionary  plans  out  in  the  wilder- 
ness. One  has  not  steam-cars  there  to 
come  and  go  at  his  nod." 

"  Yet  you  came  ?"  with  a  timid,  shy 
smile. 

"  Yes,"  in  his  solidest,  most  matter- 
of-fact  tone.  "  Doctor  Pritchard  secured 
an  appointment  for  me  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  and  I  came  back  to  accept 
it.      It  happened  to  bring  me  back  at  the 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


187 


end  of  the  year,  otherwise  I  should 
hardly  have  been  so  punctual.  I  did  not 
tell  you,  sir,"  to  his  grandfather,  "  that 
I  am  to  assist  in  the  geological  survey 
of  some  of  the  Middle  States.  It  will 
give  me  steady  employment  for  several 
years." 

Honora  chipped  at  the  white  slice  of 
pheasant  before  her,  as  calm  outwardly 
as  any  ideal  fine  lady,  but  for  a  few 
moments  some  inward  pain  made  her 
blind  and  deaf  to  all  about  her. 

After  a  while  she  looked  up,  her  un- 
flinching eyes  going  slowly  around  the 
table.  They  were  all  changed  ;  she  felt 
that.  This  long-lost  boy  had  wakened 
a  genial,  deep  life  in  the  house  that 
had  never  been  there  before,  with  all  its 
cheerfulness  and  hospitality.  It  was 
like  the  kindling  of  a  Christmas  fire  in 
a  cold,  bright  room. 

The  wind  was  howling  without  and 
the  sleet  and  hail  beating  against  the 
windows,  but  they  only  laughed  when 
the  storm  drowned  their  voices,  looking 
toward  Dallas — always  looking  toward 
Dallas,  their  new-found  idol.  Whether 
he  spoke  or  moved,  she  could  read  the 
quick  response  in  all  the  attentive,  lov- 
ing faces. 

She  could  tell  them  what  their  idol 
was!  Stone  —  stone;  like  any  dumb 
and  deaf  image  of  a  man  that  the  hea- 
then set  up  for  a  god.  A  woman  might 
wear  her  heart  out  in  his  service,  she 
could  tell  his  mother :  she  might  sacri- 
fice her  life  at  his  feet,  and  he  would 
stare  over  her  head  stolid  and  blind  to" 
the  end  !  She  would  like  to  give  his 
dull  heart  a  stab  !  She  would  like  to  do 
it  now — now.  To  test  if  there  were 
any  life  or  feeling  or  love  in  it  for  any- 
thing beyond  his  roots  and  ores. 

Mrs.  Duffield,  who  kept  a  quiet  watch 
upon  the  girl,  saw  an  indescribable  wea- 
riness stealing  over  her  face,  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  gay,  unfading  patch 
of  color  in  each  cheek.  She  poured  out 
a  glass  of  wine  and  sent  it  to  her  by 
a  servant ;  but  Honora  left  it  untouched 
before  her,  looking  at  it  in  a  moment 
with  eyes  whose  brilliant  defiance  rival- 
ed its  sparkle.  She  was  strong  enough  : 
she  did  not  need  it  to  keep  her  in  accord 


with  them,  though  they  were  warm  and 
cordial  and  happy,  and  she  was  shut 
out. 

How  delicious  the  supper  was,  and 
was  there  ever  so  cheerful  a  room  ? 
The  very  old  smoky  landscapes  in  their 
frames  seemed  to  glow  and  brighten  : 
Madam  Galbraith  was  subdued  and 
gentle  as  never  before — the  old  scholar, 
on  the  contrary,  full  of  life  and  quiet 
humor,  telling  some  of  those  old  stories 
which  it  was  Honora's  rare  treat  to  hear; 
and  Dour  was  genial,  proposed  Dallas' 
health  in  an  apt  little  speech,  to  which 
Gerty  listened  with  her  heart  in  her 
throat.  She  had  quite  a  matronly,  conv 
posed  manner  now — poor  Gerty — with  a 
sunny  stillness  in  her  eyes,  at  which  Ho- 
nora turned  to  look  again  and  again. 
At  the  door,  Honora  saw  Lizzy's  face 
from  time  to  time  :  she,  too,  was  looking 
at  Dallas.  Dallas  seemed  to  fiU  up  the 
measure  of  life  for  them  all  to-night ! 
Even  the  servants  gave  him  their  alle- 
giance at  first  sight — stumbled  over  each 
other  in  their  zeal  to  wait  upon  him, 
until  old  Henkel  put  them  all  aside  and 
took  up  his  own  station  behind  his  chair. 

Dallas'  conscience,  meantime,  began 
to  harass  him  for  his  rude  neglect  of 
the  brilliant  little  beauty  beside  him  : 
he  took  heart  o'  grace,  therefore,  and 
told  her  that  she  wore  the  flower  which 
he  cared  for  the  most  in  her  hair. 
"  Though  it  has  a  half-sister,  which  is 
called  by  some  Indian  name,  that  I  like 
even  better  than  the  jessamine,"  he 
added.  "  I  used  to  find  it  under  the 
dead  pine  needles  in  the  woods  when  I 
was  a  boy." 

"  You  have  associations  with  flowers, 
then  ?"  said  Honora,  with  a  sudden  hope- 
ful flurry.  "  I  have  kept  flowers  to  mark 
every  part  of  my  life.  I  have  them  all 
pressed  and  put  away." 

"  I  have  but  one  ;  but  that  is  very 
precious,"  he  rejoined,  in  his  deliberate, 
grave  way.  "  I  have  kept  it  for  a  long 
time.  I  have  it  here,  I  think,"  putting 
his  hand  in  his  breast  pocket.  She  half 
turned  her  head  toward  him,  a  soft  color 
stealing  over  her  neck  and  throat  differ- 
ent from  the  flame  in  her  cheeks.  '•  It 
is  a  specimen  of  a  Scotch  heath,  which 


i88 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


I  found  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  in 
Colorado.  There  can  be  no  mistake  in 
it.  Doctor  Pritchard  called  it  a  freak  of 
Nature,  but  I  consider  it  a  hint  of  a 
law  not  yet  understood.  There  are  no 
freaks  in  Nature.  Would  you  like  to 
look  at  it." 

"  Yes.  It  is  very  curious,  very  curi- 
ous, indeed  !"  She  let  the  brown  little 
wisp  fall  on  the  cloth  after  the  most  in- 
different of  glances,  giving  it  a  twist 
with  her  fingers  which  crumbled  it  to 
pieces.  Dallas  did  not  touch  it  and  said 
nothing.  What  unaccountable  tempers 
were  these  of  which  women  were  pos- 
sessed !  What  possible  harm  could  the 
poor  little  heath  have  done  to  the  wo- 
man ?  But  it  was  the  heath  without 
doubt :  a  moment  after  as  they  rose  from 
the  table,  she  affected  to  perceive  for  the 
first  time  what  she  had  done. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  destroyed  the  one 
thing  you  held  as  precious,  Mr.  Gal- 
braith,"  she  said,  laughing,  and  took 
pains  to  brush  the  bits  down  on  the 
floor  with  a  virulent  haste,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  live  thing  which  had  hurt 
her. 

When  the  house  was  still  that  night, 
Mr.  Galbraith  heard  an  uneasy  step 
steahng  up  and  down  the  corridor  out- 
side of  his  door,  and  presently  Honora's 
knock.  She  came  directly  up  to  him 
and  began,  without  stopping  to  take 
breath :  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  now, 
uncle :  I  must  go  away.  I  must  go  at 
once." 

He  took  off  his  spectacles  without 
looking  at  her,  folded  them,  put  them  in 
their  case  more  deliberately  than  usual, 
she  fancied.  She  herself  took  his  book 
and  pushed  it  far  over  on  the  table. 
"  That  is  the  Bible.  I've  tried  it.  It 
has  no  meaning  in  it  to-night  for  me." 

But  even  this  blasphemy,  which  chilled 
her  as  soon  as  she  had  fairly  spoken 
it,  did  not  discompose  Mr.  Galbraith. 
"So  you  are  going  away?  Sit  down, 
Nonny." 

But  she  preferred  to  stand.  The  fine 
tint  was  off  of  her  cheeks  ;  instead  of 
the  delicate  embroidered  silk,  she  wore 
a  dingy  gray  wrapper :  it  was  the  dead 


chrysalis  from  which  the  butterfly  had 
escaped  for  ever,  she  thought. 

"  I  am  going  to  earn  my  own  living, 
uncle." 

"  You  are  going  to  earn  your  own  liv- 
ing, my  dear?      In  what  way?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  oppose  me,  then  ?" 
stopping  short  in  her  sobs. 

"  I  mean  to  oppose  you  in  nothing 
that  will  give  you  happiness,  Honora." 

"  I  thought,"  after  a  chagrined  pause, 
"  you  would  have  been  distressed — sur- 
prised, at  least.  But  one  would  sup- 
pose you  had  been  sitting  here  waiting 
for  me  to  come  and  say  just  these 
words." 

Mr.  Galbraith  bent  forward  suddenly 
to  stir  the  fire.  She  could  not  see  his 
face.  "  I  thought  it  not  improbable  that 
you  would  come  in  to-night,  Nora ;"  add- 
ing, after  a  pause  :  "As  for  your  making 
your  own  living,  that  idea  is  a  common 
epidemic  now  among  women.  In  old 
times  they  worked  off  pain  or  discon- 
tent in  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Sepul- 
chre, or  hied  them  to  a  nunnery,  but 
now  they  rush  out  of  doors  to  try  and 
turn  an  honest  penny,  or  sometimes  to 
obtain  the  right  to  vote  in  the  fall 
elections." 

It  was  some  time  before  Miss  Dundas 
answered  him.  She  felt  that  she  had  in 
some  way  been  effectually  balked  in  mid- 
career,  and  could  not  readily  find  her 
way  again.  "  It  is  selfish  in  me  to  de- 
sert you  now,  when  you  need  me  most," 
she  began,  "  after  all  our  life  together.  I 
know  it  wounds  you." 

"  It  does  not  wound  me,  Nora.  I 
shall  not  call  it  selfish.  Study  your  o\m. 
happiness  first,  my  child." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  I'm  not  at  aU 
fitted  to  make  my  own  way.  I  don't 
know  what  I  could  teach,  and  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  business.  Gerty  knows 
more  of  that  than  I.  She  has  been  in 
town  shopping  many  a  time.  I  never 
was.  But  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  gulp- 
ing down  the  sobs  heroically.  "  The 
very  air  of  this  house  is  insufferable  to 
me." 

"  I  hoped  it  would  have  been  cheer- 
fuller  for  you.  my  child,  now  that  Dallas 
is    come.     He    seems    to   be   unusually 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


189 


fresh  and  youthful  in  his  feeHn;:;s.  His 
hearty  laugh  makes  me  feel  like  a  boy 
again." 

«  Cousin  Dallas  ?"  with  an  effort  of 
recollection.  "Ah,  true,  he  will  be  here 
this  winter.  He  will  be  a  great  comfort 
to  you,  no  doubt.  He  is  so  tender,  so 
full  of  fine  sensibilities.  But  I  don't 
think  he  would  feel  much  interest  in  me. 
I  am  not  a  relation,  and  neither  a  frog 
nor  a  fish.  No,  uncle,  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  Let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may,  I'll  go." 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  will,  Honora. 
When  you  have  discovered  your  voca- 
tion, I  will  make  your  way  clear  for 
you." 

The  tears  were  dried  in  Miss  Dundas' 
eyes,  and,  though  she  knew  that  miser- 
able she  was  and  ought  to  be,  they  would 
not  flow  again.  "  I  thought  you  would 
have  tried  to  control  me.  But  I  would 
not  have  been  controlled.  I  owe  it  to 
myself  not  to  remain  where  I  am  sus- 
pected of  feelings  which  I  know  no- 
thing of" 

"  I  never  controlled  a  woman  in  my 
life,  my  dear." 

"  I  may  as  well  say  good-night.  I 
suppose  it  is  all  settled  now,"  with  a 
sigh.      "Here  is  your  book  again." 

"  Good-night,  my  child.  Honora  !" 
as  she  reached  the  door,  "  of  course  I 
desire  that  you  will  take  time  to  assure 
yourself  of  your  own  wishes.  In  a 
month  we  will  talk  again  of  this  matter. 
You  must  give  me  so  much  time." 

"A  month?  Yes,  dear!"  She  ran 
quickly  back  and  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  kissing  his  gray  hair  with  the  fer- 
vid, bright  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Of  course 
I'll  wait  a  month,  as  you  wish  it.  But  I 
am  quite  determined  to  go.  You  mustn't 
oppose  me.  Yet  I — I — did  not  wish  to 
leave  you  and  the  dear  old  house  just  at 
once,"  holding  his  head  on  her  breast, 
her  face  all  tears. 

Mr.  Galbraith,  when  she  was  gone, 
opened  his  book  again,  laughing  quietly 
to  himself  But  after  an  hour  had  gone 
by.  there  was  a  sound  in  the  far  side  of  the 
house,  at  the  first  hearing  of  which  he 
rose  anxiously,  and  with  unusual  haste, 
put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat  and  went 


out.  There  was  a  long  sheltered  walk 
along  the  western  side  of  the  huuse 
which  the  drifting  snow  had  left  bare, 
and  up  and  down  this  a  heavy  step  kept 
regular,  monotonous  time  through  the 
keen  whistle  of  the  wind.  Mr.  Galbraith 
stopped,  waiting  for  the  dark  figure, 
which  was  at  the  farthest  end  of  the 
stone  pavement,  to  turn  and  come  to- 
ward him.  The  steady  timed  footfall, 
the  heavy  build  of  the  man,  a  certain 
business-Hke  decision  in  his  movement, 
came  in  sudden  contrast  in  the  old  man's 
mind  to  the  vehement  heat  and  passion 
of  the  girl  from  whom  he  had  just 
parted. 

"  Dallas  !" 

The  young  man  came  toward  him, 
hastily  drawing  him  into  the  shelter  of 
the  house.  "  I  am  an  unlucky  dog,"  he 
said :  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  kept  you 
awake.  Whether  I  wake  or  sleep,  I 
seem  to  run  my  head  against  some  dead 
wall  of  civilization." 

"  Why  can  you  not  sleep,  Dallas  ?" 
As  soon  as  the  involuntary  question  was 
asked,  he  seemed  to  repent,  and  turned 
hastily  to  look  down  the  grayish-white 
slopes  of  the  valley  and  up  at  the  black 
forests  on  the  mountain-side,  as  a  man 
might  do  who  seeks  to  avoid  the  sight 
of  a  dreaded  spectre  near  at  hand. 

"It  is  the  payment  for  my  vagabond 
habits,"  said  Dallas.  Assuredly  there 
was  no  spectre  of  aught  that  was  dead 
or  unclean  in  this  face  or  hearty,  sponta- 
neous voice.  "  I  have  slept  so  long  with 
nothing  between  me  and  the  sky  that  I 
wake  at  night  now,  in  a  house,  stifled  : 
the  ceihng,  I  fancy,  is  my  coffin-lid." 
They  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  house, 
and  came  to  the  open  side-door.  Dallas 
paused  within  the  entrance.  "  I  ought 
to  tell  you,"  he  added,  trying  to  preserve 
the  same  careless  tone,  but  making  it.  in 
spite  of  himself  strenuous  and  artificial, 
"that  I  came  to  the  conclusion  to-night 
I  was  an  irreclaimable  vagabond.  I  am 
going  back  to  my  old  life  again,  and  at 
once.  There  are  many  reasons,"  laying 
his  hand  on  Mr.  Galbraith's  arm,  when 
he  would  have  spoken,  "which  make  me 
ill  at  ease  with  even  the  kindest  and 
most  loving  human  beings.      There  is  a 


190 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


repugnance  between  us  which  is  no  fault 
of  mine.  I  include  you,  sir,  and  my 
mother.'' 

The  old  man,  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  doorway,  bowed  his  head  at- 
tentively. 

"  I  prefer  speaking  of  this  to  you. 
Men  can  understand  men.  I  have 
thought  it  over  coolly  to-night,  and  I 
feel  that  I  have  reached  that  age  when 
a  man  cannot  afford  to  temporize  with 
his  life.  Whatever  path  he  chooses,  if 
he  would  accomplish  anything  in  it,  he 
must  pursue  it  doggedly  to  the  end.  It 
is  time  for  me  to  be  done  with  looking 
back  and  vain  regrets." 

"You  mean  to  leave  us,  then,  my 
son  ?"  It  was  noticeable  that,  wander 
where  his  eye  would,  it  never  even  now 
rested  on  the  face  of  the  younger  man, 
though  the  moon,  rising  between  two 
mountain  peaks,  threw  it  into  strong 
relief  "You  have  chosen  your  path, 
Dallas  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have  chosen,  finally."  Yet 
even  as  he  said  it  there  was  doubt  sub- 
tly conveyed  in  the  grave  tone.  "  I  was 
born  for  my  work.  I  seem  for  any  other 
purpose  to  be  dull  and  incompetent. 
When  I  turn  from  it  I  am  thrown  back. 
I  don't  complain.  It  is  a  man's  work, 
and  I  have  had  delight  in  it — a  keen  de- 
light. But  other  men,  young  men,  start- 
ing with  me,  have  been  able  to  live  out 
a  man's  whole  life.  They  are  citizens, 
sons,  husbands,  fathers.  I  am  shut  in 
upon  myself"  He  paused,  but  Mr.  Gal- 
braith  asked  no  question  and  made  no 
sign.  "When  I  stretch  out  my  hand 
for  any  share  in  these  things,  there  is  a 
shadow  at  my  side  which  bars  me  out 
from  them.  I  am  not  talking  with  a 
young  man's  exaggeration,"  he  added, 
hurriedly.  "  It  is  a  real  power — as  real 
to  me  every  hour  I  live  as  Death  will 
be  some  day.  I  mean  to  yield  to  it. 
It  is  a  boy's  part  to  fight  and  struggle 
and  whine  for  what  can  never  be 
mine!" 

"  It  is  a  boy's  part  to  yield  !  Drag 
your  enemy  to  the  light.  It  will  prove 
to  be  but  a  shadow  after  all."  But  the 
energetic  appeal,  wrenched  as  it  seemed 
to  be  from  the  old  man's  tranquil  lips  in 


spite  of  himself,  did  not  move  Dallas. 
He  shook  his  head  quietly  as  he  drew 
Mr.  Galbraith  back  into  the  screen  of  the 
wall. 

"  I  know  what  is  against  me,"  calmly. 
"And,  after  all,  I'm  no  more  fitted  to  be 
a  husband  or  father  than  a  buffalo  is  to 
live  in  a  farm-yard.  I  would  grow  tired 
of  any  home  and  any  wife  in  a  month, 
with  the  old  gnawing  hunger  to  be  dig- 
ging in  the  woods  again.  Roots  and 
earths  I  can  understand.  I  do  not  need 
to  be  a  sham  to  them." 

"  There  is  no  use,  then,  in  fighting 
against  your  nature." 

"  No."  Yet  he  stood  irresolute,  look- 
ing into  the  dark  hall.  Within  there  lay 
the  home  and  wife  which  he  had  come 
back  so  far  to  find  ;  and  if  he  turned  his 
back  on  them  now,  it  was  for  the  last 
time.  "  If  a  man  dared  to  be  himself 
in  there,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "  I'll 
tell  you  !"  with  his  finger  on  Mr.  Gal- 
braith's  breast,  and  blundering  out  the 
words,  for  any  kind  of  speculation  was 
new  ground  for  Dallas.  "  Out  there  on 
the  frontier,  gentlemen  and  trappers  and 
roughs  used  to  camp  and  eat  together 
and  ask  no  questions.  You  take  a  man 
for  what  he  is  :  he's  a  good  shot,  or  he's 
a  plucky  devil,  or  he's  free  with  his 
whisky  and  corn-bake — you  take  him  at 
best,  you  understand  ?  And  as  for  what 
went  behind,  what  does  that  concern  you  ? 
But  here  in  Society,  as  you  call  it — 
Christian  Society — a  man  is  weighed  and 
measured  and  marked,  and,  it  seems  to 
me,  by  narrow  scales,  sir — narrow  scales. 
There's  not  an  opinion  he  may  have,  or 
a  whim  of  temper  or  ignorance  of  man- 
ner, that  is  not  carped  at  and  noted  and 
set  down,"  bitterly.  "And  if  he  has 
made  a  slip  in  his  youth — "  He  stopped 
abruptly. 

"  Yes,  my  son  ?"  laying  both  hands 
softly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Or  if,  not  being  guilty,  there  is  a 
doubt  upon  him — such  as  has  come  upon 
many  men — I  know  such  cases — when 
there  is  no  way  to  shake  it  off  and  prove 
his  innocence — " 

"Then,  Dallas?" 

"  There  is  no  hope  for  him,"  after  a 
moment's  silence.     "  There  is  no  Christ 


\ 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


191 


among  us  now-a-days  to  look  below  the 
hard  luck  or  below  the  guilt." 

The  storm  was  rising  with  the  moon, 
driving  the  wind  with  shrill  sighs  down 
the  defiles  ;  the  sallow  clouds  overhead 
rolled  and  heaped  themselves  in  bul- 
warks along  the  west ;  the  sharp  grains 
of  sleet  began  to  strike  against  their 
faces.  "  Let  me  take  you  in,  sir,"  said 
Dallas,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "  This 
wind  is  piercing." 

"  One  moment,  my  son,  I  will  not 
argue  with  you  as  to  this  matter  of  which 
you  have  spoken  to  me.  I  am  not  fitted 
to  argue  with  or  to  influence  any  one,  I 
fear.  Do  I  understand  that  this  feeling 
has  prompted  you  to  leave  us,  and 
go  back  finally  to  your  old  course  of 
life  ?" 

"  That  seems  to  me  best,  and  I  have 
thought  it  over  coolly  to-night." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish.  You  are 
a  man — you  are  a  stronger  man  than  I. 
I  cannot  judge  for  you.  But  give  me  a 
little  while  longer  to  learn  to  know  Tom's 
boy,"  taking  his  hand  as  a  woman  might 
have  done.  "  You  say  there  are  reasons 
which  make  it  painful  for  you  to  come  in 
daily  contact  with  us.  I  ask  you,  Dal- 
las, to  bear  the  pain.  Stay  with  us  a 
month — a    week    longer."      They    had 


reached  the  door  of  Mr.  Galbraitlrs 
chamber. 

"  I  will  stay  for  the  time  you  wish," 
said  Dallas,  pressing  the  delicate,  wiin- 
kled  hand  in  his  own  blacksmith's  fin- 
gers. "  Perhaps  for  a  week  or  two  I 
can  be  of  use  to  you."  He  opened  the 
door  and  bade  him  good-night,  repeating 
cheerfully,  "  I'll  stay."  He  was  glad  the 
old  gentleman  had  not  attempted  to 
argue  with  him.  He  was  wise  to  see 
that  Dallas  was  the  best  judge  of  what 
was  the  right  course  for  him.  But  lie 
would  humor  the  old  man's  fancy.  He 
was  weak  and  old. 

As  for  Honora — and  here  Dallas  put 
his  arm  across  his  breast — she  could  not 
hurt  him  again :  he  was  quite  willing 
that  she  should  despise  him,  know  that 
he  was  a  convict.  He  saw  the  differ- 
ence between  them  now.  He  would  re- 
main the  boor  that  he  was  ;  and  she — 
she  was  the  finest,  frailest  work  of— 
Society. 

As  for  his  secret,  they  all  might 
know  it  now.  He  was  done  with  them 
— done  with  the  world.  Let  them  think 
as  they  would  of  him. 

He  would  tell  them  the  story — to- 
morrow. 


PART     IX. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

«  A  ND  that  was  the  end  of  John 
/x  Dour  !"  And  Madam  Galbraith, 
as  was  her  wont  at  the  close  of  a  long 
story,  cleared  her  throat,  jerked  down 
her  stomacher  and  brought  herself  gen- 
erally into  stately  order. 

"  But  Nicholas  ?  You  said  there  was 
a  brother  Nicholas  ?" 

"  How  ?"  with  a  pleased  chuckle. 
"You're  an  insatiate  fellow  for  old 
family  gossip,  Dallas.  I  never  could  in- 
duce my  son  Tom  to  listen  to  any  of 
it.  Well,  Nicholas — "  and  she  went  on, 
her  listener  following  her  intently.  It 
was  a  cold  winter  morning,  the  sun 
sparkling  on  the  frozen  creeks  and  rivers 
below,  and  giving  a  glittering  edge  to  the 
bellying,  bronze-colored  vapors  about  the 
horizon.  There  was  a  long  balcony 
across  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  from 
which  the  Dour  landscape,  as  she  called 
it,  with  its  mountains  and  hollows,  in  all 
its  changes  of  light  and  shade,  could  best 
be  seen.  It  had  been  her  daily  habit, 
since  she  could  walk,  to  walk  there.  She 
could  give  you  the  age  of  every  tree 
within  a  year :  when  the  crops  failed  on 
the  Dour  land,  that  year  of  our  Lord 
was  set  down  as  a  defaulter  in  time — the 
sun  was  delinquent  in  the  chief  work  he 
19a 


was  sent  to  do.  It  was  the  land  of  the 
Dours  :  there  were  they  born  ;  there  they 
lay  buried.  As  for  the  United  States  or 
any  world  outside  of  it,  they  were  of  as 
much  value  as  the  rim  to  the  cup — so 
much  and  no  more. 

She  and  Dallas  stalked  up  and  down 
there  side  by  side — their  hands  behind 
their  backs — every  morning,  whether  it 
rained  or  shone.  He  always  went  to 
find  her  and  bring  her  out  for  this  walk. 
These  dead  Dours  were  his  people,  and 
for  so  many  years  he  had  stood  alone. 
He  never  tired  of  them.  When  they 
had  done  with  the  dead  Dours,  they 
took  up  their  land. 

«  There's  no  better  soil  than  that  strip 
of  bottom  east  of  McGruger's,  in  Amer- 
ica," nodding  toward  it.  "  Why  don't 
you  speak,  Dallas  ?" 

"  Because  it's  made  ground,  and  badly 
made.  In  five  years  it  will  only  be  fit 
for  sheep-grazing." 

She  rapped  angrily  with  her  staff: 
"  Sheep-grazing  !  That  is  on  a  par  with 
your  saying  there  were  no  indications  of 
gold  on  the  North  Bluff.  Quite  on  a 
par  !     Why  don't  you  speak,  Dallas  ?" 

"  There  are  no  indications.  There's 
lead  in  the  hills  beyond,  or  I'm  much 
mistaken." 

"  Lead  ?     There  never  was  lead  heard 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


193 


of  on  my  land  !  I'll  go  in,  if  you  please  ; 
I'll  go  in.  I  cannot  bear  this  perpetual 
contradiction.  My  son  Thomas  never 
contradicted  me.  Young  people  in  those 
days  knew  their  position  better  and  their 
information.  It  is  in  my  old  age  that  I 
must  be  taught  my  ignorance.  Ignorance 
of  the  Dour  land  !  You'll  be  sorry  for 
this,  boy,  when  your  own  hair  is  gray." 

"  I  am  sorry  now,"  earnestly,  holding 
her  as  she  was  entering  the  door.  "You 
know,  madam,  I  have  no  wish  to  oppose 
you,  even  in  this  trifle." 

"  Trifle  ?  You  have  strange  ideas  as 
to  what  constitutes  a  trifle  !  You  mean 
to  acknowledge  that  there  are  indications 
of  gold,  then  ?" 

"  No,  madam.  There  is  no  gold  there, 
and  never  will  be ;"  and  Dallas'  jaws  shut 
as  tightly  as  the  old  woman's  before  him. 
"  How  can  I  say  what  I  know  to  be  false  ?" 

"As  you  please,  sir;  as  you  please," 
and,  drawing  her  breath  heavily  like  a 
horse,  she  went  into  the  open  door  of 
the  upper  hall.  Dallas  continued  his 
walk  to  the  window  of  his  own  room, 
and  going  in,  shut  himself  up  and  sat 
down  with  his  feet  on  tlie  table.  "  Gold, 
indeed  ?"  picking  up  certain  bits  of  ore 
that  lay  scattered  about.  "  I'd  like  to 
buy  back  the  land  and  prove  that  there 
is  lead  in  it,  and  that  that  bottom  is  fit 
for  nothing  but  sheep-pasture.  It  ought 
to  be  mine.  We  Dours  are  all  buried 
there,"  looking  down  at  a  little  enclosure 
on  the  same  mountain  as  that  on  which 
the  house  stood. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  window :  "  Hil- 
lo,  Dallas  !" 

Dallas  took  down  his  feet,  and  said, 
"  Hillo  !" 

"There's  the  last  deed,  thank  the 
Lord.  When  a  thing's  dead,  let's  bury 
it  out  of  sight — the  sooner  the  better," 
said  Colonel  Pervis,  throwing  down  some 
papers  on  which  the  letters  ranged  them- 
selves square  and  black  as  mutes  in  a 
funeral  procession.  "And  there  goes 
the  last  of  the  Dour  land,  except  these 
half-dozen  acres  about  the  house.  It  has 
gone  for  a  song." 

"It  could  be  bought  back  again  as 
cheaply,  you  think  ?" 

"  Have  you  a  mind  to  buy  it,  Gal- 
13 


braith  ?"  quickly.  « That  would  be  a 
noble  task  to  set  yourself  now  in  your 
youth." 

"I?  No.  I'm  but  a  vagabond,  liv- 
ing from  hand  to  mouth." 

"  You  persist  in  your  determination, 
then,  to  turn  your  back  on  the  Dours 
and  the  Dour  land  before  long,  do  you  ?" 

Dallas  did  not  speak  for  a  moment : 
"  I  promised  Mr.  Galbraitli  to  remain  for 
a  month,  and  it  is  nearly  over  now.  It  is 
time  I  was  gone." 

The  Colonel  folded  and  squared  the 
papers  before  him,  keeping  a  sidelong 
watch  on  the  young  man.  "  A  month 
only  1  It  seems  as  though  you  had 
always  been  here.  Your  niche  was  kept 
so  vacant  and  so  ready  for  you,  you  see  ! 
You  fitted  in  like  a  keystone  to  the  arch. 
It's  an  unaccountable  move  for  a  young 
man  to  turn  his  back  upon  his  home — a 
man  in  your  case." 

"  I  could  almost  believe  I  had  been 
always  here,"  said  Dallas,  under  his 
breath,  glancing  around.  Some  people 
stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  their  sur- 
roundings. Tom's  room  was  changed ; 
had  taken  on  itself  the  impress  of  its 
new  occupant  in  a  curious  degree.  Colo- 
nel Pervis,  having  tied  up  his  documents 
with  red  tape  in  what  he  considered  a 
thoroughly  legal  manner,  his  head  know- 
ingly on  one  side,  began  wandering 
about,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring 
up  at  the  hanging-shelves  filled  with 
ores,  the  papers  tacked  on  the  walls, 
gummed  over  with  lichen  and  shavings 
of  different  woods. 

"  So  you're  going  just  as  you've  got 
things  ship-shape  about  you  ?  Though 
you  could  pick  up  this  rubbish  anywhere. 
But  it's  your  meat  and  drink.  A  woods 
now  is  a  completer  thing  to  you  than  the 
best  furnished  parlor,  I  reckon  !"  with  a 
subdued  awe.  "  And  you're  going  never 
to  come  back,  Dallas  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  I'd  be  glad  to 
think  of  this  room  and  my  place  here 
always  kept  vacant  and  ready  for  me, 
and  that  I  could  come  back  to  it  when  I 
pleased,  from  year  to  year."  He  too  got 
up  and  went  around  from  shelf  to  shelf, 
but  in  a  lagging,  lethargic  way,  setting 
straight  and  dusting  his  specimens. 


194 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


The  Colonel's  curious  questions  had 
taktn,  as  it  were,  the  life  and  color  from 
all  that  was  around  him.  He  felt  him- 
self to  be  suddenly  heavy  and  dull  as 
the  lump  of  mud  mixed  with  iron  that  he 
held  in  his  hand.  He  was  going.  Had 
he  not  determined  to  go  that  night,  in 
spite  of  his  grandfather's  entreaties  ? 
Nothing  had  occurred  since  then  to 
alter  his  position  Nothing.  When 
the  time  came  to  say  farewell,  he  would 
tell  them  his  story ;  and  after  he  was 
gone,  perhaps  the  sting  of  it  would  grow 
less  sharp  to  them,  and  they  would  be 
glad  to  have  him  come  some  time,  con- 
vict as  he  was,  and  sleep  in  his  own 
room  for  a  night,  and  to  remember  how, 
if  Fate  long  ago  had  been  juster  to  him, 
this  might  have  been  always  his  happy 
home.  The  month  would  be  over  in  a 
few  days.  He  had  not  told  them  his 
secret,  thinking  he  might  surely  be  free 
from  it  for  that  little  time — time  enough 
only  to  take  breath  in  this  sweet,  pure 
air  of  home  before,  like  the  Wandering 
Jew,  he  took  up  his  curse  and  began 
again  his  solitary  pilgrimage.  He  had 
something  of  the  feeling  of  a  man  whose 
days  are  checked  and  counted  off,  mea- 
sured out  by  some  inexorable  disease  ; 
less  pity  for  himself  than  yearning  ten- 
derness for  these  whom  he  must  leave 
behind — a  hungry  longing  to  be  dear  to 
these  healthy,  fortunate  people  who  were 
so  dear  to  him.  In  the  little  time  left 
him  he  thought  they  should  feel  that  he 
was  their  son,  bone  of  their  bone,  in 
every  word  or  action  by  which  he  could 
bring  them  near  or  show  the  affection 
that  choked  his  stupid  heart  and  brought 
the  tears  to  his  grave  blue  eyes. 

At  that  moment  the  thump,  thump  of 
Madam  Galbraith's  stafT  was  heard  out- 
side, and  then  a  single  authoritative  sum- 
mons to  the  door.  Poor  Dallas  had  it 
open  almost  before  the  knock,  and  met 
her  with  a  heated,  anxious  countenance 
and  outstretched  hand.  Her  face,  which 
was  black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  instantly 
cleared : 

'•  Why,  how's  this  ?  Glad  to  see  the 
old  dragon,  hey?  Well,  I'll  come  in, 
though  I  only  was  in  search  of  Colonel 
Pervis.     He  has  some  papers  for  me  to 


sign,  I  suspect.  What  are  you  hiding 
them  for,  sir  ?"  sternly,  taking  her 
seat,  bringing  up  an  inkstand  and  put- 
ting it  down  in  front  of  her  with  a  bang 
that  made  the  Colonel  wink.  "  I  know 
it  is  the  last  of  my  land  I  am  to  sign 
away.  Am  I  an  h)'steric  girl,  do  you 
think,  that  the  news  must  be  broken  to 
me  piece  by  piece  ?  Give  me  a  pen,  my 
son." 

Now,  the  truth  was  that  the  Colonel 
had  stopped  in  Dallas'  room  from  sheer 
cowardice  before  he  took  the  papers  to 
her.  Nobody  knew  in  what  mood  she 
would  complete  her  sacrifice — whether  in 
fury  against  herself  and  Fate,  or  gloomy 
silence.  Pervis,  behind  her  chair,  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  rolled  up  his  eyes 
thankfully  when  the  Hannah  Dour  Gal- 
braith  was  scored  in  free,  deep  characters 
across  the  whole  bottom  of  the  page. 
She  threw  down  the  pen  and  looked  up 
at  Dallas,  her  hard,  long  upper  lip  trem- 
bling as  slie  laughed  hoarsely  : 

'^  Tut  !  tut !  why  it  is  only  so  much 
earth  and  water  gone,"  rising  as  she 
spoke  and  putting  her  hand  on  Dallas' 
shoulder.  "  But  I  have  something  left 
which  nothing  can  take  away." 

Even  Colonel  Pervis,  whose  observa- 
tion was  as  headlong  as  his  tongue, 
noticed  the  singular  silence  in  which 
Galbraith  received  this  half  appeal.  He 
was  unusually  gende  with  her,  however, 
after  that,  leading  her  down  the  stairs  to 
the  dining-room,  where  the  usual  cozy 
luncheon-table  was  set,  and  Mr.  Gal- 
braith and  Honora  awaited  them.  So 
gentle  that  Madam  Galbraith,  who  did  not 
usually  dally  long  in  regions  of  tender- 
ness, presumed  on  it.  She  always  had 
an  irresistible  propensity  to  lash  a  quiet 
horse  to  find  what  spirit  was  in  him. 

"  Dallas  was  surprised,  James,"  she 
said  graciously,  glancing  at  the  pale  face 
of  the  young  man  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table — "very  much  surprised,  when 
I  mentioned  to  him  Edward  Dour's  the- 
ory that  there  was  gold  in  the  North 
Bluff.  He  doubted  it,  in  fact;  but  I 
have  no  doubt  from  his  manner  now  he 
is  convinced  of  his  mistake,  and  regrets 
that  he  differed  with  me." 

The  horse  was  alive  to  the  la.sh.     His 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


195 


secret,  his  affectionate  resolves  all  for- 
gotten, went  whistling  down  the  wind. 
"  Edward  Dour  or  any  man  who  tried  to 
con\-ince  you  of  tliat  was  worse  than  a 
fool,  madam :  he  was  a  knave.  It  is 
preposterous.  Look  at  the  formation 
of  the  soil — " 

« Now,  Dallas,"  said  Mrs.  DufSeld, 
putting  her  blue-veined  little  hand  pre- 
remptorily  on  his  Hps,  "if  you  bring  your 
hobbies  on  the  table,  nobody  can  eat  a 
mouthful,  and  this  custard  of  Honora's 
is  dehcious.  Adjourn  the  soils,  my 
dear.  Cannot  you  yield  to  your  grand- 
mother ?''  she  added  in  a  vexed  whisper. 

"  I  hope  to  the  Lord  he'll  not :  every 
blow  brings  them  closer  together,"  ejacu- 
lated the  Colonel  in  the  same  tone,  while 
Dallas  sat  obstinately  silent.  The  storm, 
however,  soon  passed  by,  clearing  the 
air.  It  was  an  old  matter  by  this  time  : 
there  were  such  storms  between  them  at 
everj-  meal.  After  a  while  Dallas  began 
to  notice  how  cheerful  the  fire  was.  flash- 
ing over  the  snug  htde  room,  while  the 
winter  landscape  lay  drearily  outside. 
Then  the  little  part)-  about  the  table 
drew  closer  together  when  he  began  to 
talk,  and  ate  and  laughed  with  fresh  en- 
joj-menL  They  were  careless  and  happy 
and  sure  of  each  other,  as  they  had  not 
been  before  they  were  shipwrecked  to- 
gether. 

Otherwise,  the  shipwreck  had  made 
but  little  change.  The  great  Dour  land- 
scape yet  lay  without,  no  matter  what 
hold  the  flimsy  bank-notes  of  other  men 
might  affect  to  laj-  upon  it :  the  house 
w^as  unchanged ;  there  were  still  the 
chairs  placed  at  the  table  for  the  friends 
■who  might  happen  to  come  in,  and  the 
friends  were  always  there  to  fill  them  ; 
there  were  one  or  two  quiet  old  servants 
instead  of  the  old  crowd  and  confusion  ; 
but  the  dishes  had  a  flavor  beyond  any 
which  spices  could  give.  Honora  had 
taken  Lizz)-'s  place.  And  it  is  wonder- 
ful what  human  interest  and  poetry  one 
finds  in  a  beefsteak  if  hands  we  love 
have  seasoned  it ;  especially  if  it  be  a 
tender  cut  and  done  to  a  turn. 

There  had  been  so  much  to  tell  and 
show  to  their  new-found  son,  to  make 
him  familiar  with    his    home,   that    the 


great  loss  and  consequent  changes  had 
been  slurred  over  every  day  until  they 
were  almost  forgotten.  His  grandfather 
had  haunts  and  walks  which  he  must 
know ;  Madam  Galbraith  had  her  legends 
of  each  to  tell  when  they  came  home ; 
there  were  the  old  neighbors  and  friends 
— neighbors  and  friends  for  many  gen- 
erations— who  were  clamorous  to  know 
the  boy  and  to  hand  him  around  through 
a  long  succession  of  dinner-parties  and 
oyster-suppers.  There  was  a  thorough- 
ness of  geniality  in  the  old  fellows  and 
their  wives  with  which  Dallas  struck  a 
quick  accord. 

"The  boy's  one  of  ourselves,  sir!" 
cried  Squire  Pool,  enthusiastically  to  his 
grandfather,  giving  the  verdict  of  the 
county.  «  He  fell  into  our  ways  from 
the  first  day  as  if  he  were  born  among 
us,  and  wasn't  chock  full  of  such  queer, 
out-of-the-way  learning.  The  county 
has  cause  to  be  proud  of  him,  sir.  He's 
healthy  and  hearty,  sir,  as  few  of  our 
young  fellows  are  now-a-days;  and  he 
hkes  a  joke,  Dallas  does,"  confidentially, 
"as  quiet  as  he  looks.  Now.  some  of 
them  stories  he  told  at  our  house  was 
capital.  When  you'd  think  "em  over, 
you'd  see  how  keen  they  were." 

They  gave  Dallas  no  time  for  think- 
ing of  himself  He  was  up  before  dawn 
and  do«-n  among  the  emigrants  with  his 
grandfather  and  Pervis,  ser\-ing  as  an 
interpreter  between  them  and  these 
coarser  folk,  -with  whom  his  S}-mpathy 
seemed,  Per\-is  said,  as  close  as  that  of 
blood.  The  Galbraith  funds  were  all  ex- 
hausted :  homes  and  emplo)Tnent  in  the 
West  had  been  found  for  the  larger  num- 
ber of  the  colony,  but  there  had  lingered 
a  crowd  of  WTetches,  the  most  unable 
and  helpless.  For  them,  until  Dallas 
went  to  work  to  plan  and  contrive,  there 
was  apparently  no  help.  Madam  Gal- 
braith had  given  all  she  had.  and  now 
washed  her  hands  in  innocency.  Her 
husband,  when  he  was  among  them, 
stripped  himself  of  his  ver}-  clothing  in 
his  nervous  trembling  compassion  ;  but 
at  home,  with  his  feet  to  the  fire  and  his 
book  in  hand,  he  was  apt  to  philosophize 
about  them  coolly,  regarding  them  as  a 
vague  abstraction — one  of  the  unclean 


196 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


masses  that  make  up  this  dull,  unan- 
swerable puzzle  of  a  world.  Colonel 
Pervis  God-blessed  his  soul,  and  grew 
hot  and  cold,  and  rode  madly  about  the 
neighborhood,  drumming  up  baskets  of 
provisions  for  them,  and  then,  conscience- 
clear,  sat  down  composedly  to  his  whist 
and  jorum  of  brandy.  "  What  more 
could  he  do  ?  Wasn't  he  a  shiftless 
devil,  that  never  had  taken  care  of 
himself?" 

But  there  was  not  one  of  the  sordid, 
hungry  faces  which  this  healthy,  hearty 
young  fellow,  whose  laugh  was  so  in- 
fectious and  whose  jokes  were  so  capital, 
did  not  carry  with  him  night  and  day 
with  a  motherly  tenderness — an  aching  at 
heart  that  could  only  grow  out  of  his  own 
hard  mischance  in  life.  With  this  weight 
to  carry,  he  had  been  living  altogether 
outside  of  himself,  and  until  to-day,  when 
the  last  man  was  comfortably  settled,  he 
had  no  chance  to  go  back  and  probe  and 
speculate  upon  his  old  foul  secret,  and 
how  he  should  reconcile  it  to  his  new 
life. 

They  used  to  ride  back  from  the  wells 
to  breakfast,  and  then  his  mother  claimed 
him  for  long  walks  or  visits  to  the  neigh- 
bors :  she  lost  all  her  apathy  when  he 
was  beside  her ;  went  about  fair,  smil- 
ing, triumphant,  quite  content  to  be 
silent  so  long  as  he  would  speak  ;  or  his 
grandfather  established  him  in  an  arm- 
chair in  the  library  beside  his  own.  The 
old  gentleman  had  gathered  Dallas'  books 
on  geology  together,  and  was  studying 
them  with  a  boy's  freshness.  Honora 
used  to  stop  outside  of  the  door  and 
listen  to  their  eager  voices  and  Dallas' 
occasional  hearty  burst  of  laughter,  and 
go  away  a  little  colder  and  stiller,  and 
with  dryer  eyes  than  before.  For,  what- 
ever he  might  be  to  others — whether  she 
saw  his  eyes  full  of  pity  or  twinkling 
with  amusement  at  Madam  Galbraith's 
absurdities ;  whether  she  donned  her 
dazzling  little  dress  and  enacted  the 
dazzling  little  role  she  first  played,  or 
sat  humbly  stitching  in  the  corner,  like 
the  poor  dependant  she  felt  herself  to 
be — Dallas  stood  aloof  from  her,  cold, 
grave,  regardless. 

He  had  forgotten  the  stain  upon  him 


with  others,  but  with  her  he  had  nevei 
forgotten  it. 

She  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  table 
to-day,  the  light  from  the  window  at 
his  back  throwing  the  delicate  little 
figure  and  thoughtful  face,  so  full  of 
sweet,  untold  meanings,  into  relief, 
while  the  others  were  in  the  shadow  of 
the  dull  wintry  day.  He  looked  at  her 
alone  as  he  talked,  her  figure  being  thus 
in  relief,  and  for  the  same  reason,  per- 
haps, remembered  how  he  had  stood 
apart  from  her,  never  forgetting  the 
stain.  He  was  very  thankful  that  he 
had  done  this. 

As  the  firelight  burned  redder  and 
warmer,  and  the  home  within  grew  more 
and  more  homelike  and  familiar,  he 
looked  out  at  the  driving  snow  and  the 
solitary  wastes  sloping  toward  the  west, 
where  his  path  lay  :  the  feeling  of  thank- 
fulness strengthened  within  him.  Luxury 
would  not  have  tempted  him.  But  it 
would  have  been  so  easy  to  rest  here,  in 
this  homely  old  house  ;  so  easy  to  forget 
that  he  was  a  solitary  outcast,  with  these 
two  or  three  people  who  loved  him  to 
work  for  ;  so  easy  to  have  been  tempted 
to  strive  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
manhood  to  draw  this  pure  little  girl  to 
him — to  win  her  to  lay  her  head  on  his 
breast,  to  lie  there  for  ever,  his  wife. 

She  looked  up  at  that  moment,  laugh- 
ing and  blushing,  when  her  uncle  spoke 
to  her.  Because  his  life  lately  had  been 
so  healthy  and  vigorous,  and  free  from 
all  morbid  pain,  the  shadow  of  the  Al- 
bany years  lay  the  heavier  now  on  Dal- 
las. It  lay  like  some  foul  disease,  with 
which  his  healthy  self  had  nothing  to  do. 
The  old  heavy  throbbing  began  in  his 
breast,  with  which  his  heart  used  to 
count  out  the  slow  hours  in  prison,  each 
one  nearer  death  :  he  looked  at  her  a 
moment,  and  then  rose  suddenly.  He 
was  very  thankful  that  he  had  never 
crossed  the  space  between  them — very 
thankful  ! 

Mr.  Galbraith  followed  him  to  the 
window,  where  he  stood  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  leaning  his  head  against  the 
pane.  "  We  will  have  heavy  snows  this 
winter,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  It  will  be 
long  before  I  can  go  with  you  on  your 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


197 


tramps,  Dallas.  But  in  the  spring  you 
must  let  me  take  my  hammer  and  chisel 
and  follow  aftftr  you.  I'm  a  good  walker 
for  my  age.  Very  good,"  glancing  down 
at  his  thin  legs  complacently. 

"You  forget,  sir,"  speaking  slowly, 
« I  gave  myself  but  a  month  to  remain 
here,  and  that  is  nearly  over." 

He  had  not  turned  his  head  to  look 
■at  the  old  man  when  he  spoke,  and  for 
a  httle  while  he  heard  only  the  sleet 
beating  against  the  window-pane  :  then 
his  grandfather  put  his  hand  on  his  arm  : 
"  There  is  nothing  here  which  could  cause 
you  to  alter  your  purpose,  Dallas  .''" 

"  Nothing." 

"There  is  no  effort  which  I  could 
make  that  would  do  away  with  this  ne- 
cessity which  urges  you  ?  Consider,  my 
son." 

"  I  have  considered.  There  is  no 
chance  of  any  change  while  I  live. 
None." 

Mr.  Galbraith  stood  beside  him  quite 
silent,  but  Dallas  moved  away  restlessly. 
He  could  not  bear  the  reproach  of  the 
presence  of  this  old  man,  not  one  of 
whose  days  had  been  tainted  even  with 
suspicion. 

"  Ho,  Dallas !"  called  the  Colonel, 
looking  up  from  his  newspaper.  "  By- 
George,  my  memory's  going !  Beck 
asked  me  to  desire  you  to  ride  over  to 
the  Queen,  on  particular  business,  early 
this  morning." 

"  I  will  go  now.  It  is  not  yet  too 
late,"  glad  of  the  escape.  But  when  he 
reached  the  hall  and  had  shut  the  door 
behind  him,  he  halted.  Honora  stood 
in  the  large  bay-window  at  the  farther 
end,  quite  alone,  her  hands  clasped 
above  her  eyes,  watching  so  intently  the 
driving  snow  that  she  had  not  heard  his 
step. 

He  was  going :  he  meant  to  put  a 
barrier  between  them  that  never  could 
be  passed.  But  before  he  went  ?  Other 
men  drew  the  women  they  loved  to 
them  for  life,  made  them  their  own, 
body  and  soul.  If  he  could  but  hold 
her  hand  once  in  his  !  But  once!  It  was 
not  much  to  come  near  her  in  these  few 
days,  before  they  parted  for  ever,  to 
take  away  a  few  kind  looks  and  words. 


So  thankful  was  he  that  he  had  never 
forgotten  the  bar  between  them  that  he 
felt  he  deserved  a  reward.  He  laid 
down  the  cloak  that  he  carried,  anc' 
went  toward  her  with  quick,  resolute 
steps.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
come  near  her  of  his  own  free  will  since 
the  first  day  he  came ;  yet,  being  a 
woman,  and  hearing  him  behind  her 
now,  she  did  not  turn  or  look  at  him, 
but  drew  aside  with  a  smile,  to  make 
room  for  hinx  in  the  narrow  recess,  as 
naturally  as  though  they  had  been  hourly 
companions,  though  he  noticed  that  an 
uncontrollable  shiver  passed  over  her. 
It  was  she,  too,  who  spoke  first  after 
they  had  stood  for  some  time  silent,  side 
by  side. 

"  You  are  going  to  ride  over  to  the 
Indian  Oueen,  I  think  you  said  ?" 

"  Yes?' 

"  Lizzy  is  there  :  she  is  going  to-mor- 
row. I  bade  her  good-bye  ;  but  will 
you  give  her  my  dear  love  ?  Will  you 
tell  her  again  that  I  know  what  a  good 
friend  she  has  been  to  me  V 

"  Yes.     I  will  tell  her." 

The  silence  between  them,  which 
these  surface-words  did  not  seem  to 
break  for  some  strange  reason,  seemed 
full  of  meaning  to  Miss  Dundas — her 
color,  her  ordinary  strength  and  vigor 
left  her :  it  was  as  though  she  saw  a 
warning  presence  which  held  them  apart; 
the  ghost,  the  shadow  of  a  something  of 
which  the  reality  was  never  to  hve, 
never  to  be  known  to  them.  She  tried 
to  thrust  it  aside  with  any  sound  of 
words,  without  caring  for  their  meaning: 

"  I  will  never  see  her  again.  I  never 
have  been  outside  of  these  hills.  Friends 
who  go  away  are  lost  to  me  for  ever.  Cut 
you  will  see  her  ?  She  is  going  back  to 
Manasquan.  and  you  have  lived  there. 
You  can  go  back  again  to  see  the  mists 
come  up  over  the  marshes,  and  the  sea 
break  on  the  beach  :  Lizzy  has  told  me 
of  it.  It  is  good  to  be  a  man,  to  come 
and  go  where  you  will.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  keep  a  man  from  his  friend  unless 
death  part  them." 

"No,  I  can  never  go  back  to  i\rana- 
squan." 

She  glanced  quickly  up  at  him     There 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


was  no  morbid  shadow  in  the  face 
turned  to  hers,  nor  feverish  discontent.  It 
was  that  of  a  resolute,  young  and  strong 
man,  with  great  possibilities  in  it  for 
happiness  and  achievement,  looking  down 
calm  and  uncomplaining  upon  the  friend 
from  whom  death  had  parted  him.  He 
had  accepted  the  death.  There  was  in 
his  look  the  memory  of  much  that  had 
been,  of  all  that  might  have  been  ;  but 
there  was  no  promise  of  anything  to 
come. 

She  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
look  fully. 

"  I  am  a  man  free  to  come  and  go  as 
I  will,"  he  said.  "Yet  I  can  never  go 
back  to  Manasquan.  I  meet  men  and 
women  who  I  know  can  only  be  my 
friends  after  I  am  dead.  There  are 
hands  which  I  can  never  touch."  and  his 
eyes,  she  thought,  rested  on  hers,  where 
it  lay  close  beside  him. 

"  A  man,"  said  Honora,  with  a  slight 
pause  upon  the  word,  "  can  do  what  he 
will.      His  life  is  in  his  own  hand." 

"  I  thought  that  when  I  was  a  boy," 
said  Dallas.  "  But  there  is  something 
which  goes  before  you  through  life,  and 
rules  your  way.  Miss  Dundas.  It  is  not 
tangible,  even  as  the  pillar  of  cloud. 
But  you  follow  it.  You  follow  it,  if  it 
leads  you  through  the  fire  or  the  sea." 
He  was  silent,  not  waiting  for  her  to 
speak,  apparently,  but  because  the  sub- 
ject was  closed  and  ended,  and  there 
was  as  little  use  in  farther  words  as  in 
moans  over  a  grave. 

The  dry  white  flakes  fell  without 
steadily.  Honora,  who  was  never  to  be 
his  wife,  from  whom  he  was  thankful  he 
had  held  himself  as  a  stranger,  was  be- 
side him :  her  soft  dress  touched  his 
foot,  her  breath  clouded  the  panes. 
Once  he  had  felt  her  breath,  and  knew 
how  sweet  it  was. 

"A  man,"  he  said  deliberately,  as 
though  reciting  a  lesson,  •'  will  learn  to 
obey  and  keep  within  the  lines  ruled  to 
him.  He  will  not  come  near  the  woman 
he  loves  if  he  knows  it  is  forbidden, 
though  no  other  can  take  her  place  to 
nim.  He  would  not  come  near  her.  He 
would  not  touch  her  hand,  though  it  lay 
beside  him." 


She  drew  away  her  hand  involuntarily. 
His  whole  countenance  changed  at  that : 
he  caught  it  in  his  own  with  a  breath- 
less, half-famished  look,  smoothed  and 
stroked  it  as  it  lay  in  his  own  tanned 
palm,  narrow  and  fine  and  milky-tinted, 

"  I  am  going  away,  Honora,"  drawing 
her  toward  him.  "  I  want  to  hold  your 
hand  once,  and  hear  you  say  that  you  are 
my  friend.  I  want  to  remember  that 
when  I  am  gone." 

"  You  may  remember  it.  I  am  your 
friend,"  in  a  measured  voice. 

"  How  can  you  be  ?  How  could  3'ou 
know  me  ?  Other  men  have  been  able 
to  come  close  to  you  and  try  to  show 
you  the  best  that  is  in  them — to  change 
their  tastes  and  habits  to  suit  your 
fancies.      But  I — " 

"  I  know  you  better  than  any  other 
human  being  does.  Cousin  Dallas,"  with 
a  dry.  bitter  tone. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  me  ?"  hur- 
riedly letting  her  hand  fall,  which  had 
rested  in  his  as  passive  as  the  handle  of 
a  machine.  She  adjusted  her  disordered 
sleeve  with  it  as  mechanically  and  pre- 
cisely as  if  it  had  been  a  machine. 

"  We  are  cousins,  you  know,  and  you 
have  been  the  object  of  interest  in  all 
eyes  :  it  is  not  unnatural  that  I  should 
have  noticed  you  curiously." 

"  No  ;  it  is  not  unnatural.  What  do 
you  know  of  me  ?" 

Honora  gave  an  abrupt  laugh,  in 
which  there  was  no  sweetness,  and 
which  seemed  to  rob  her  cheek  of  its 
slight  color.  "  I  know  you  to  be  earnest 
and  zealous  in  your  work.  You  ought 
to  be.  What  heart  or  soul  you  have  has 
gone  down  into  it." 

"Into  my  work?  And  my  mother 
and  kinsfolk  ?" 

"  God  gave  them  to  you,  and  3'Ou 
make  the  best  of  them.  They  were 
none  of  your  choosing.  You  do  your 
duty." 

"  But  I  do  not  go  out  of  my  path  to 
find  love  or  friendship  ?" 

"  No.  You  go  out  of  your  beaten 
track  only  for  ores  and  reptiles.  Where 
they  are  concerned,  I  have  seen  you 
eager,  or  angry,  or  glad  as  other  men. 
But  only  then." 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


199 


"  And  if  love  came  to  me  ?" 

"  You  would  receive  it  as  that  stone 
wall  does  the  poor  creeper  yonder.  You 
would  give  it  support  and  protection. 
But  an  answering  life,  never.  A  few 
moments  ago,  before  you  came  to  me,  I 
was  thinking  of  you,  when  I  looked  at 
that  rock  and  the  miserable  vine — " 

Dallas,  always  blind  as  a  mole  to  any 
but  the  barest  meanings,  studied  the 
passionate  little  face  before  him  for  a 
while,  finding  nothing  but  the  indifferent 
contempt  of  her  words  in  it.  He  began 
to  button  up  his  coat  slowly. 

'•  Well !''  stifling  a  sigh  in  his  big 
breast.  "It  doesn't  matter ;  though  I 
did  not  think  you  would  judge  me  so 
hardly,  Miss  Dundas.  I  know  you  so 
well  that  I  thought  you  would  be  just  to 
me,  perhaps,  when  I  was  gone." 

"  I  am  just.      I  am  your  friend." 

"  No  !  no  !  I  know  what  friendship 
is  better  than  you.  After  all,  I  would 
have  been  a  tenderer,  more  loyal  woman 
than  you." 

"  You  are  going.  Cousin  Dallas  ?"  see- 
ing that  he  took  up  the  cloak. 

"  Only  to  the  Queen.  On  Monday  I 
•will  go  to  the  West."  The  fastenings 
of  the  cloak  were  intricate.  She  watched 
him  for  a  minute,  and  then  turned  her 
head,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  I — I  have  not  vexed  you.  You  are 
not  going  the  sooner  because  of  what  I 
have  said  ?" 

"  Not  a  day  sooner.  I  intended  to  go 
on  Moiida}^"  The  cloak  was  fastened 
at  last,  and  he  came  up  to  her  side  again. 
She  turned  quickly,  and  held  out  her 
hand.  He  took  it,  holding  it  an  instant 
and  looking  in  her  face  steadily.  "  I 
could  make  you  think  differently  of  me, 
Miss  Dundas.  But  I  will  not.  Why 
should  I  ?" 

The  little  hand  which  had  laid  in  his 
passive  as  a  machine,  was  alive  now, 
burning  and  trembling,  but  he  released 
it  quietly  and  drew  back. 

"  You  do  not  intend  to  try  to  alter  my 
opinion,  then  ?"  with  a  quick  breath,  that 
sounded  like  a  sob. 

"  It  I  could  change  it  by  the  turning 
of  my  finger,  I  would  not  do  it,"  vehe- 
mently.     "  I   hold   my   life    in    my  own 


hands,  as  you  said  :  I  will  not  be  dis- 
honest." 

A  moment  after  she  saw  him  riding 
down  the  avenue  through  the  snow — a 
black,  powerful,  obstinate  figure,  against 
which  the  wind  blew  and  the  soft  flakes 
drifted  in  vain. 

"  If  I  could  take  her  to  my  arms  to- 
morrow, I  would  not  do  it,"  were  the 
words  which  he  said  again  and  again  to 
himself  "  I  hold  my  life  in  my  own 
hands." 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

Matt  was  perched  in  the  window  of 
the  stable-loft,  among  the  hay,  watching 
for  Dallas,  when  he  rode  up,  and  Beck 
himself  came  out  from  the  door  below, 
his  green  wamus  on  and  pitchfork  in 
hand,  and  gave  him  a  cheer.  "  It's  Lizzy 
that  sent  for  you,  sir  :  she's  got  a  sudden 
notion  of  bein'  off  to  Manasquan.  But 
I'm  mighty  glad  you're  here  to  look  over 
things,  now  that  they're  in  order.  What 
do  you  think  of  them  pigs,  now  ?  Gen- 
uine Berkshire,  they  are.  Well,  sir,  it's 
a  relief  to  get  back  to  the  Queen,  bless 
her  copper-colored  phiz — a  relief  Beggy 
and  me  got  the  money  the  madam  give 
us  changed  into  specie,  and  it's  back  in 
the  tea-pot.  I  kin  hardly  get  the  smell 
of  them  infernal  wells  out  of  my  nose 
even  yet,"  rooting  among  the  pigs  as 
though  inhaling  the  odors  of  Araby  the 
Blest.      "  Hyur's  the  old  woman  now." 

Peggy  came  bustling  out,  her  apron 
over  her  head.  "  Lord  bless  us  !  is  it 
you  at  last,  Mr.  Galbraith  ?  In  with 
you,  Matt,  and  ask  Miss  Lizzy  to  put  the 
coffee  on  the  boil.  Beck's  been  on  the 
tenter-hooks  all  day,  clearin'  up  and 
watchin'  for  you  to  inspect  the  place. 
The  Queen  don't  seem  the  natural 
Queen  without  you,  sir,  for  all.  We've 
got  a  nice  turkey-poult  for  dinner, 
waitin'  an'  ready." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Gal- 
braith, heartily.  "  I  did  not  eat  any 
luncheon  for  some  reason  or  other,  and 
this  ride  through  the  snow  makes  a  man 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


ravenous.  Good-day,  Wash.  How  are 
you,  Lizzy  ?"  sitting  down  on  the  porch 
to  unstrap  his  leggings.  But,  in  spite  of 
his  noisy  greeting,  Lizzy  hngered  in  the 
doorway,  looking  at  him.  She  fancied 
the  heartiness  was  artificial,  and  that 
there  were  unusual  dark  hollows  under 
her  boy's  eyes.  She  followed  him 
closely  when  he  came  in,  swinging 
Matt  on  his  shoulder,  and  beginning  to 
romp  with  him,  evading  her,  while  Beck 
made  his  toilet  outside  by  pulling  off  his 
boots,  and  Peggy  hurried  up  the  dinner, 
peeping  in  the  lids  of  various  stew-pans  : 

"  The  tomaytoes  is  done  to  a  turn ; 
but  the  potatoes  is  dried,  I'm  afeard. 
But  this  celery —  Oh,  you  know  they 
were  goin'  to  sell  off  the  celery  the  day 
after  Beck  come  up  to  take  the  house 
agen  ?  Seemed  kind  o'  providential ; 
throughout  it's  bin  providential  since  the 
day  you  set  foot  on  them  there  steps, 
Mr.  Galbraith."  Peggy  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  her  neat  little  kitchen,  tapping 
off  her  words  with  a  shining  pewter 
spoon  in  one  hand,  the  stove  at  her 
back,  with  its  half-dozen  savory  steams 
rising  in  a  cloud.  "  I  often  says  to 
Beck,  '  Do  you  mind  the  day  when  Mr. 
Galbraith  first  come  up  them  steps,  and 
wrote  his  name  in  our  register  ?'  There's 
been  changes  since  then.      Changes  !" 

"  I  would  like  to  look  at  that  register, 
Peggy,"  said  Dallas,  suddenly  lowering 
Matt  on  the  floor.  "  Have  you  it 
there  ?"  She  gave  it  to  him,  dusting  it 
on  her  apron,  and  he  turned  over  the 
leaves  to  the  page  where  his  name  was 
written  in  unsteady  characters.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  taken  his  name  and 
place  on  leaving  the  prison.  Next  week 
he  was  going  out  from  them  again,  and, 
beyond  the  name,  what  had  he  gained  ? 
The  stain  was  on  him  heavy  now  as 
then. 

"  What  is  it,  Dallas  ?" 

'•  Nothing  of  moment,  Lizzy,"  closing 
the  book.  "  Only  that  for  some  of  us 
the  chance  of  change  is  over." 

Lizzy  turned  away  hastily.  "  That  is 
better,  Dallas,"  she  said.  "  I  want  no 
change,  but  rest  now."  She  went  into 
the  other  room  presently,  and  Mrs.  Beck 
whispered  to  Dallas  that  she  had  been 


"  low  "  ever  since  a  letter  came  last  night 
Dallas  thought  rather  that  the  long 
season  of  anxiety  and  work  was  begin- 
ning to  tell  on  her.  She  had  been  worn 
and  listless  of  late  :  the  salt  sea-air  and 
drowsy  sun  yonder  would  revive  her 
again.  She  came  out  again  in  quite  a 
glow  of  cheerfulness,  however,  and 
helped  Peggy  place  the  dishes  on  the 
table,  and  sat  beside  Matt,  joking  with 
him  as  she  cut  choice  bits  of  turkey  for 
him.  He  must  come  and  see  the  cozy 
little  house  where  she  would  live  quite 
alone,  where  you  could  see  the  white 
surf  roll  in  on  the  beach,  and  the  fisher- 
men drawing  their  nets  along  the  edge. 
Wouldn't  she  be  afraid  to  live  there 
alone  ?  How  she  laughed  at  that !  Why 
she  had  been  alone  these  many  years^ 
many  years.  Would  she  be  afraid  of  the 
sea  or  of  the  woods  ?  Very  few  people 
there  in  Manasquan  remembered  she  was 
alive:  they  would  soon  forget  her  alto- 
gether in  her  queer  brown  house  in  the 
trees  :  she  would  live  on,  she  told  Matt, 
and  on,  till  she  got  to  be  a  little,  white- 
haired  old  woman,  and  then  some  morn- 
ing they  would  come  to  find  her,  and  she 
would  be  gone. 

Perhaps  somebody  would  say  then, 
"Why,  we  used  to  know  her  when  her 
cheeks  were  red  and  her  hair  was  black." 
Though,  perhaps,  they  would  have  for- 
gotten to  say  even  that. 

They  did  not  join  very  heartily  in  her 
laugh  after  this,  and  Beck  fell  to  work 
slashing  fiercely  at  the  other  side  of  the 
turkey,  and  piled  up  all  their  plates 
afresh.  Then  Lizzy,  in  another  tone, 
told  Peggy  she  was  quite  serious  in 
wishing  Matt  to  come  and  spend  the 
summer  with  her,  and  she  wanted  her 
and  her  husband  to  come  ;  and  then  she 
glanced  at  Dallas  with  a  sudden  white 
face,  and  was  silent. 

He  looked  up  at  her  quietly,  and 
smiled.  She  had  carried  his  trouble  a 
long  time.  His  shoulders  were  broad 
enough  to  bear  it  all  now. 

Peggy's  dinner  was  so  good  that  it 
Winded  her  to  anything  beyond.  "  Beck, 
give  Mr.  Galbraith  some  cranberry-jelly; 
his  plate's  quite  clear.  I  kerried  over  a 
pot  or  two  of  my  apple-butter  to   Mrs. 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


Rattlin  yesterday,  knowin'  all  her  stores 
went  in  the  fire.  Dear !  dear !  but 
they're  snug  over  there.  It  ud  do  your 
heart  good  ;  and  Miss  Gerty,  she  declared 
she'd  take  a  crock  for  herself.  She's 
getting  ready  to  house-keep.  Her  man 
has  gone  into  business  in  Ohio.  He's 
a  thin-hlooded  feller,  but  he's  mighty 
clever." 

"  He's  ahead  of  the  telegraph,  that 
Dour,"  said  Beck,  with  a  significant 
shake  of  the  head,  his  drumstick  in 
hand.  "  He's  shouldered  the  Rattlins 
heartily,  though,  with  all  his  sharpness. 
Now,  Peggy,  my  woman,  whar's  yer 
puddin'  V 

The  pudding  disappeared  to  the  last 
crumb.  The  table  was  cleared,  and 
Peggy  seated  by  the  clean  hearth  at  her 
sewing,  when  Lizzy  beckoned  Dallas  out 
to  the  little  porch.  "  I  sent  for  you  to 
say  good-bye,  Galbraith." 

"  You  are  going  back  to  the  old  place, 
Lizzy  ?" 

"  Yes.  Every  hour  I  stay  here  adds 
to  your  risk  of  detection.  Besides,  I'm 
not  well.  By  night  or  day  I  hear  a 
sound  like  the  roll  of  the  surf,  beat, 
beat.  It  drives  me  mad.  I  think  it 
must  be  the  homesickness,  as  Peggy 
calls  it,"  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  had  a 
letter  from  Father  Kimball  yesterday, 
and  since  then  the  surf  has  called  louder 
and  louder."  She  took  an  enormous 
yellow  envelope  from  her  pocket  as  she 
spoke,  and  opened  it. 

"  May  I  read  it,  Lizzy  ?"  She  stood 
beside  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bench  por- 
ing over  the  old-fashioned  writing,  smil- 
ing now  and  then  to  himself  A  single 
name  belonging  to  those  old  Manasquan 
days  had  a  curious  power  over  him,  she 
saw ;  brought  out  his  hidden  self— the 
old  Dallas,  who  used  to  go  rooting 
through  the  woods,  trolling  out  fishing 
songs.  He  had  forgotten,  in  his  eager- 
ness, the  gulf  that  lay  between  himself 
and  them. 

"  So  Becker  has  added  a  room  to  the 
smithy  .?"  muttering  as  he  read.  "And 
Tim  Graah's  mate  on  a  schooner  ?  So  ! 
so  !  Tim's  almost  a  man  by  this  time  ; 
and  the  railroad's  looked  for  next  year. 
To  be  sure,  and  will  be  till  the  day  of 


judgment.  There's  a  salt  smell  in  the 
very  paper,  Lizzy,"  turning  it  over  v^ith 
an  odd  homesick  look.  "  I-  am  glad  for 
you  that  you  are  going  back  to  Mana- 
squan. There's  no  other  place  in  the 
world  so  quiet  and  so  friendly.  No 
other."  After  a  little  pause  he  read  to 
the  end  :  "  Kimball  says  that  Van  Zeldt 
is  married.  Lizzy.  Do  you  know  his 
wife  ?"  as  he  carefully  folded  the  letter, 
and  gave  it  back  to  her. 

"  Jenny  Noanes  ?  Yes,  she  was  a 
rosy-cheeked  little  girl,  who  used  to 
come  to  the  Point  to  pick  huckleberries 
in  the  fall.  Very  pretty !  Oh,  veiy 
pretty !" 

"  Too  young  for  Jim,  then,  I  would 
say." 

"  Just  the  right  age,  Dallas  ;  just  the 
right  age,"  emphatically.  "  Men  don't 
grow  old  as  soon  as  women.  They  like 
fresh  roses  and  fresh  hearts,"  with  a 
laugh  that  stopped  too  short,  looking 
over  the  unending  white  slopes  growing 
gray  in  the  twilight. 

"  You  are  cold,  Lizzy,  and  ill.  Go  in. 
I  am  glad  you're  going  home." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  my  home." 

"  I  do  not  forget  that  you  never  would 
have  left  it  but  for  me.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  me,  your  life  would  have  been 
— like  that  of  other  women.  I  have 
not  many  words,  Lizzy,  but  I  never 
forget." 

Lizzy  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  porch,  where 
the  wind  blew  freely  on  her  sober,  color- 
less face  :  one  would  have  fancied  some 
raging  fever  burned  under  the  pallor  and 
steadiness  which  sought  some  outward 
storm  to  contend  with.  "  You  are  going 
to  remain  here,  Dallas  ?"  she  said, 
suddenly. 

He  hesitated.  It  was  not  easy  to  tell 
her  that  her  sacrifice  had  been  in  vain — 
that  after  all  he  was  to  be  the  vagabond 
and  wanderer,  to  save  whom  she  had 
given  her  all. 

«  No,  Lizzy,  I  am  going.  The  ship 
yonder  is  low  in  the  water  already.  I 
will  not  stay  in  her  to  make  a  wreck  of 
her  altogether." 

"  Thank  God  !"  with  a  long  breath  of 
relief.     She    hurried    toward    him,    and 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


caught  his  wrists.  "Will  you  go  at  once, 
then  ?" 

Dallas  stared  down  on  her.  "  Go  ? 
Why,  you  brought  me  here.  You  would 
have  had  me  marry — " 

"  That  is  all  over  !  There's  no  hope 
for  you,  do  as  we  will."  As  she  spoke 
she  glanced  again  and  again  over  her 
shoulder  into  the  darkening  twilight. 
There  was  a  leafless  forest  stretching  its 
black  and  grim  phalanx  down  the  hill 
to  the  frozen  creek  below  :  up  the  road 
were  scattered  bare  trees,  lifting  their 
dusky,  spectral  arms  with  a  mute  appeal. 
She  watched  them  as  she  spoke,  as 
though  some  shadow  she  dreaded  would 
appear  from  them.  On  the  hill-road, 
down  which  Dallas,  once  standing  where 
he  did  now,  had  seen  Laddoun's  black 
horse  striking  out  fiery  sparks  in  the 
night,  the  snow  lay  deep  and  soft.  But 
in  the  strained  silence  he  fancied  he 
heard  muffled  footfalls  coming  closer, 
closer. 

"  Is  it  the  dead  you  fear  ?"  he  said, 
half  smiling,  touching  Lizzy  to  rouse  her. 

She  rubbed  her  hand  slowly  over  her 
forehead.  "  I  do  not  know.  We  people 
from  the  sea  hear  voices  and  see  faces 
which  no  one  else  can  know.  He  is  on 
your  track,  Dallas.   He  is  on  your  track." 

Dallas  drew  back.  "There  is  but 
one  man  who  can  do  me  harm.  You 
mean  Laddoun  ?" 

"  I  mean  Laddoun.  I  do  not  know 
whether  he  be  dead  or  alive." 

"  It  does  not  matter.  Death  will 
make  small  change  in  George,  I  fancy. 
Is  he  here  ?" 

"  I  heard  to-day  that  he  had  been  seen 
here  a  few  weeks  ago,  looking  for  you. 
Do  you  understand,  Dallas  ?  Looking 
for  you.  And  there  is  a  rumor  of  his 
death,  last  summer,  in  California.  How- 
ever he  comes,  dead  or  alive,  he  has  a 
power  which  you  cannot  fight  against. 
Oh,  Dallas,  I  could  not  live  to  see  you 
trodden  to  the  dust  here !  I  thank 
God  that  you  are  going." 

He  turned  on  her :  "  You  think  I 
would  turn  my  back  on  Laddoun  V  and 
then  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
porch  in  the  slow,  swinging  gait  which 
she  well  knew. 


"  Now  he's  winding  up  his  soul  in 
obstinacy,  and  all  the  powers  in  heaven 
or  hell  would  not  move  him,"  she  mut- 
tered in  appalled  dismay.  She  caught 
him  by  the  sleeve  as  he  passed  :  "  Dallas  ? 
Dallas  ?" 

He  stopped.  "I  have  my  hfe  in  my 
own  hands.  I  am  an  honest  man  ; 
and,  by  God's  help,  I  mean  to  take  my 
place  and  marry  the  wife  I  love,  as  other 
honest  men  do.  I'll  be  baited  and  bulhed 
by  no  ruffian,  though  he  rise  from  his 
grave  to  do  it.  The  matter's  closed, 
Lizzy.      We  will  not  talk  of  it  again." 

She  leaned  against  the  railing  of  the 
porch  until  he  had  gone  in  to  bid  Peggy 
and  Beck  good-bye,  and,  coming  out 
again,  had  mounted  his  horse.  Then 
she  went  down  and  put  her  hand  up  on 
the  pommel :    "  Dallas  !" 

"Go  on,  Lizzy,"  kindly.  But  a  new 
expression  in  his  usually  patient  eyes 
reminded  her  how  many  years  he  had 
been  baited  by  that  old  ill-luck  as  by  a 
hound  from  hell,  and  that  now  he  had 
suddenly  turned  upon  it.  But  his  man- 
ner to  her  was  very  gentle.  "  What  is 
it,  Lizzy  ?"  he  said  again. 

"  I  only  wished  to  say  to  you,  dear 
boy,"  trembling  as  she  said  it,  "  that  dis- 
covery now  is  sure,  and  that  witli  Hono- 
ra's  prejudices  she  never  would  marry 
you  with  that  old  stain  upon  you." 

He  sat  erect  on  the  horse,  perfectly 
motionless  while  she  spoke,  and  then 
said  dehberately :  "  I  mean  to  have  my 
right,  my  home,  and  wife,  and  position, 
as  other  men.  I  shall  not  consider  the 
cloud  over  me  or  Honora's  prejudices. 
They  are  matters  for  which  I  am  not 
responsible." 

"  And  Laddoun  ?" 

When  he  did  not  reply  to  her  she 
leaned  forward  to  see  his  face  :  the  blood 
forsook  her  own.  "  There  is  murder  in 
your  heart,  Dallas  Galbraith  !" 

He  put  away  her  hands  with  unnatural 
quietness  :  "  You  vex  yourself  with  vaii> 
terrors.  I  see  my  path  quite  clear  to  tht: 
end.    Laddoun  will  never  cross  it  again.  ' 

There  was  a  thin  flaking  of  ice  about 
the  horse's  mouth — he  stooped  to  clear  it 
away  :  the  gentler  his  touch  to  the  dumb 
animal,  the  more  Lizzy,  with  a  woman's 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


203 


keen  instinct,  shrank  before  the  secret 
purpose  hicklen  beneath  his  grave  calm 
with  a  clear  but  unnameable  terror.  She 
saw  him  and  his  life  with  a  keen  flash  of 
insight — how  long  he  had  worn  the  halter 
about  his  neck  ;  that  Laddoun  had 
pressed  him  hardly,  was  riding  him  down 
to  death  ;  that  beneath  the  Galbraith  cre- 
dulous, gentle  temper  the  Dour  blood 
ran  in  his  veins  untainted,  fierce,  relent- 
less, untamed  in  him  by  any  religious 
teaching.  She  remembered  his  old 
grandmother's  words  :  "  I  have  crushed 
many  a  snake  under  my  foot  that  threat- 
ened to  sting  me."  And  this  man, 
genial,  hearty,  single-minded,  would  do 
the  same  if  driven  to  the  wall,  with  a 
gentler  face  and  colder,  more  steely  will. 
She  looked  again  and  again  from  him  up 
to  the  hill-roads  drifted  deep  with  snow 
and  growing  gray  in  the  twilight,  listen- 
ing for  muffled  footsteps.  What  if  they 
came  now .?  What  if  they  met  him 
3-onder  in  the  sohtude  of  the  night 
among  the  mountains  ? 

There  was  no  surer  sign  of  the  terror 
with  which  his  inflexible  will  had  inspired 
her  than  the  fact  that  not  by  word  or 
motion  did  she  seek  to  interfere  further 
with  his  purpose.  When  he  drew  up  his 
rein  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  she 
only  sobbed  over  it,  holding  it  close  to  her 
wet  face,  praying  to  the  God  of  whom  he 
knew  so  little  for  her  dear  boy.  But  she 
said  not  a  word  beyond  good-bye. 

"Good-bye,  Lizzy."  He  put  his 
fingers  for  one  moment  on  her  head. 
Long  afterward  she  remembered  the 
touch.  It  was  different  from  anything 
Dallas  had  ever  said  or  done  to  her. 
It  made  her  wonder  whether,  dull  and 
insensible  as  she  thought  him,  the  years 
gone  and  the  kindness  which  lay  be- 
tween them  had  not  borne  a  deeper 
meaning  to  Dallas  Galbraith  than  even 
to  her,  woman  as  she  was.  She  would 
have  been  glad  to  think  it.  But  what 
did  it  matter  ?  He  wa.'^  gone.  The  soft 
echo  of  his  horse's  steps  had  died  out 
speedily:  no  others  came  to  fill  the 
silence,  though  she  listened  until  late  in 
the  night,  trembling  as  she  listened.  They 
were  all  gone  on  their  separate  paths. 
She  was  left    behind.     The  world  was 


full  of  crossing  paths,  whereon  love,  and 
pain,  and  danger  lurked  ;  but  she  had 
only  to  creep  into  her  quiet  corner  now 
and  wait  for  the  end.  No  steps  came 
and  went  in  which  she  had  a  part.  There 
were  now  no  voices  in  the  distance  call- 
ing on  her  to  follow. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

It  was  Honora  to  whom  the  muffled 
steps  came  that  night  up  through  the 
snow,  heavy  and  firm,  tending  to  their 
end,  she  thought,  steadily  as  Fate  itself. 
When  we  are  young  as  Honora  there  is  a 
meaning  in  every  passing  step  to  us  :  we 
know  not  in  what  disguise  the  lictor  will 
come — who  brings  to  us  the  royal  robe  and 
crown  of  which  we  dream.  Some  legend 
hngers  with  us  of  the  world  from  which 
we  came,  by  which  we  know  that  Fate 
touches  us  in  the  fingers  of  every  beg- 
gar— that  every  hand  holds  out  to  us  the 
leaves  of  healing  or  of  death.  It  is  as 
we  grow  old  that  we  grow  wise — or 
blind. 

Dallas,  coming  into  the  library,  found 
it  vacant,  though  he  had  seen  Honora's 
slight  shadow  passing  to  and  fro  behind 
the  curtained  windows  as  he  came  up 
the  walk  without.  He  closed  the  door 
behind  him  and  laid  down  the  cap  which 
he  still  carried,  and  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause  and  a  long  breath,  he  went 
to  the  door  of  the  little  breakfast-room 
beyond  and  opened  it.  She  was  there, 
and  alone,  dressed  in  some  soft  crimson 
stuff",  standing  by  the  fire,  her  sewing  in 
her  hand  as  she  had  hastily  gathered  it 
up  when  he  frightened  her,  for  she  had 
fled  from  him,  she  did  not  know  why  ; 
yet  in  the  moment  that  elapsed  as  he 
crossed  the  floor  to  her  side,  some  sud- 
den instinct  told  her  that  the  man  ap- 
proaching her  was  himself  pursued. 

He  took  the  work  from  her  hand  and 
laid  it  down  :  "  I  have  a  few  words  to 
say  to  you,  and  I  wish  nothing  to  come 
between  us  until  you  have  heard  me." 
She  bowed  and  seated  herself  in  a  great 
arm-chair  slowly,  to  gain  time,  while  he 


204 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


leaned  with  one  hand  on  the  table,  re- 
garding her  through  his  half-shut  eyes. 
There  was  no  flash  of  sultry  passion, 
with  which  a  young  man  might  look 
upon  as  fair  a  woman  as  Honora  when 
he  loved  her.  But  there  was  a  keen  ap- 
preciation in  the  homely,  nobly-moulded 
face  of  all  that  was  true  and  beautiful  in 
that  world  of  which  she  was  to  him  the 
secret  and  only  portal.  The  clean  blood 
in  his  strong  body  might  flow  tempe- 
rately, unquickened  by  her  touch  ;  but 
there  was  a  hunger  in  his  eyes  that  told 
how  his  nature  cried  out  for  her  ;  how 
all  the  singular,  life-long  desire  which 
possessed  the  honest,  loving  fellow, 
beyond  other  men,  for  a  home,  for  chil- 
dren, for  the  something  genuine  and 
pure  denied  to  him  and  given  to  all 
others,  had  found  its  issue  in  her  ;  how 
his  secret  soul,  kept  closely  covered  and 
difficult  of  access,  had  been  reached  by 
her,  was  alive,  kindled  to  the  quick  at 
last  with  that  enduring,  sturdy  affection, 
that  jealous  honor  which  a  man  feels  but 
once  in  his  hfe,  and  then  for  his  wife, 
and  for  the  woman  whom  he  loves. 

Yet  Dallas  did  not  speak.  The  beau- 
tiful city  was  before  him  ;  but  he  did  not 
forget  that  to  gain  it  he  must  creep  into 
it  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  disguised  and 
false. 

"  You  gave  me  your  verdict  upon  me, 
to-night,  Miss  Dundas,"  he  said,  forcing 
a  careless  tone,  which  he  lost  at  the  out- 
set. "  I  wish  you  now  to  know  me  as  I 
am.  I  would  be  glad  if  I  could  open  my 
hear  c  for  you  to  read,  and  all  of  my  life." 

There  was  an  under-current  of  thought 
with  these  words. 

Was  it  showing  her  his  true  self  to 
drag  out  the  vile  character  which  society 
had  put  upon  him  ?  Was  it  the  justice 
to  hnnself  which  he  would  have  shown 
another  man  ?  Let  it  sleep  for  a  while. 
It  was  Dallas  Galbraith  who  wooed  the 
woman  he  loved,  not  Laddoun's  victim. 

He  continued,  his  face  lightening  after 
this  curiously:  "You  thought  me  un- 
feeling and  colder  than  other  men.  Per- 
haps that  may  be  so  I  do  not  know 
other  men  :  I  only  know  myself  You 
will  pardon  me  if  I  speak  of  myself  a 
'ittle  longer  ?"  coloring:. 


"  I  will  pardon  it,"  without  raising  hei 
eyes. 

"  The  old  life  I  knew  before  I  came 
here.  Miss  Dundas,  was  different  from 
yours,"  choosing  his  words  slowly,  keep- 
ing down,  she  saw,  .beneath  their  mode- 
ration, a  strong  emotion.  "Its  weight 
has  been  upon  me  :  it  is  upon  me  still. 
If  you  knew  it  all,  you  would  perhaps 
forgive  those  deficiencies  in  manner  and 
speech  in  which  I  seemed  to  you  less 
deferential  than  other  men." 

She  would  have  spoken,  but  he  put 
his  hand  up  asking  for  silence  :  it  seemed 
as  though  the  constraint  once  broken 
which  he  had  enforced  upon  himself,  his 
only  safeguard  was  gone  : 

"  I  have  dragged  that  old  life  about 
with  me  like  the  dead  seed  which  clings 
to  some  living  plants."  He  did  not  see 
the  smile  which  she  hid  at  this  under  a 
nervous  cough,  but  went  on  with  such  a 
pallor  in  his  firm  face,  such  terrible  vehe- 
mence under  his  dehberate  tone,  that  she, 
looking  up  at  him,  felt  the  smile  freeze 
upon  her  lips.  This  was  no  love-making 
amidst  summer  and  roses.  The  man 
led  her,  behind  him,  into  the  narrow 
straits  which  lie  between  life  and  death, 
where  his  soul,  she  knew,  had  already 
fought  through  many  a  combat,  and  had 
sometimes  been  worsted. 

"It  hangs  over  me  like  the  dead,  ill- 
smelling  seed  upon  the  Hving  plant,"  he 
repeated.  "  Though  I  owed  that  old 
life  nothing,  I  did  not  grow  out  of  it. 
It  was  foisted  on  me  by  others.  It  is 
unjust  that  it  should  chng  to  me  and 
poison  the  air  about  me  for  ever." 

"  Let  it  go,"  she  interrupted  him. 
"  What  is  your  past  life  to  us,  Cousin 
Dallas  ?  You  come  to  us  as  you  are. 
Besides,  I  know  more  of  it  than  you 
think,  and  what  is  it  ?  You  were  mise- 
rably poor — you  are  self-taught." 

"Yes." 

But  it  daunted  poor  little  Honora  that 
this  encouragement,  which  came  with 
many  maidenly  blushes,  roused  in  him 
no  answering  heat.  On  the  contrary,  it 
cooled  him :  he  turned  away  even  to 
the  window  from  which  could  be  seen 
the  snow-covered  mountains,  up  which 
the  distant  roads  wound,  and  the  sombre 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


205 


speculation  in  his  eyes  was  something  in 
which  she  had  no  share.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  was  by  her  side  : 

"  I  have  been  ridden  by  a  spectre 
long  enough  !"  countenance  and  voice 
full  of  vehement  fire.  "  To-night  I 
have  done  with  it,"  with  a  curious  ges- 
ture, as  though  he  threw  a  yoke  from  his 
neck.  There  was  a  heaj)  of  cushions 
on  the  floor :  he  sat  down  on  them  at 
her  feet,  and  looked  up  in  her  face. 

The  old  locust  tree  at  the  window  beat 
with  its  bare  branches  against  the  pane, 
impatient  of  the  silence  :  the  hot  coals 
fell  in  red  showers  and  grew  gray  and 
cold,  but  Honora  did  not  speak.  The 
Dallas  Galbraith  at  whom  she  glanced 
shyly  through  her  veiling  lash.es  was  a 
man  whom  she  had  seen  before,  but  as 
through  a  glass  darkly.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  brought  his  soul  into  his  face  for 
her  to  read.  The  spectre  was  gone,  and 
whatever  pure  meaning  lay  between  them 
secretly  came  out  now,  not  dreading  the 
light.  The  man  and  woman  seeking 
each  other  in  soul  and  body,  met,  and 
were  not  ashamed. 

What  words  they  spoke  were  hardly 
conventional.  When  her  flushed  cheek 
and  quick  breath  showed  that  the  silence 
grew  painful,  Dallas  took  the  nervous, 
trembling  hands  in  his  : 

"You  always  knew  I  loved  you,  Ho- 
nora ?" 

'•Yes,  Dallas,"  in  a  weak  little 
whisper. 

"  But  you  ?  I  know  how  rough  and 
untaught  I  am.  And  yet  I  thought  you 
cared  for  me." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  putting  her 
hands  over  her  face  with  a  stifled  sob 
or  two. 

There  was  a  bit  of  fine,  reddish-brown 
hair  which  in  some  way  curled  itself 
about  Dallas'  fingers  just  then.  He 
suddenly  drew  her  down  to  his  breast, 
and  putting  away  her  hands,  kissed  the 
dew)-  red  lips  again  and  again. 

The  wind  sighed  its  warning,  the 
dead  branches  beat  the  pane,  and  the  fire 
flash.ed  and  faded  in  vain.  The  one  rare, 
healing  cordial  of  the  world  had  come  to 
Dallas'  hps  at  last— -the  life  of  this  life, 
and  tlie  only  thing  of  which  we  are  sure 


when  we  are  dead.  The  poor,  stupid 
naturalist,  who  had  blundered  over  it 
unlooked  for,  had  power  to  drink  as  deep 
a  draught  as  the  crowned  Ceesar,  or  the 
divine  Florentine  who  sought  it  through 
heaven  and  hell.  God's  wine  of  love, 
as  of  sunshine,  waits  on  the  roadside  for 
the  beggar  who  is  willing,  for  the  mur- 
derer on  his  way  to  the  scaflx)ld. 

But  Dallas,  finding  it,  saw  no  scaffold 
or  shadow  beyond :  sitting  beside  this 
woman,  reading  in  her  soul  that  it  knew 
no  world  outside  of  his,  his  life  seemed 
to  him  suddenly  full  and  complete. 
There  was  no  pain  or  danger  coming, 
no  change  lurking  in  the  distance.  He 
traced  the  outline  of  the  small,  purely- 
cut  face  with  his  forefinger  as  if  learning 
a  sweet  lesson  by  heart,  kissed  the 
closed  lids  to  waken  the  liquid  light  of 
the  brilliant  eyes  ;  and  when  he  looked 
into  them,  thought  the  world  a  sum- 
mer-garden, secure,  warm,  beautiful.  A 
delicious,  childish  feeling — a  ^curity — 
which  had  never  come  to  him  in  his 
life  before.  The  home  in  which  he  had 
rooted  himself  so  firmly,  his  mother,  the 
fond  old  people  who  made  the  home 
complete,  his  friends  outside.  Matt,  the 
boys  he  was  trj-ing  to  help, — they  all 
came  vaguely  into  his  consciousness, 
framed  the  picture  of  his  wife,  and  made 
it  more  tender  and  more  real. 

He  had  been  conscious  of  the  rough 
grit  and  clay  in  his  own  character — Ho- 
nora would  take  it  aAvay.  He  knew  how 
ignorant  and  irreligious  he  was  ;  yet 
sometimes,  when  at  his  work,  he  had 
been  on  the  verge  of  awful  visions, 
wherein  God  and  His  world  had  almost 
been  made  known  to  him.  His  wife, 
with  her  pure,  holy  touch,  would  lead 
him  within  the  veil. 

He  said  something  of  this  to  her.  It 
was  when  she  rose  and  asked  him  to 
take  her  to  her  uncle.  Dallas  pushed 
back  the  hair  from-  her  forehead,  and 
turned  her  face  up  to  his.  "  I  put  my 
life  in  your  hands,  Honora,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "  When  you  are  my  Avife  you 
must  lead  me  in  the  right  paths,  here 
and  hereafter,"  lowering  his  voice.  "  I 
will  be  guided  by  you." 

'•Oh,"  DaUas!     as    if    I    could    find 


206 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


fault  with  you.  There  is  nothing  I 
would  have  changed.  Though  I  often 
have  thought,"  knitting  her  brows  anx- 
iously, "  that  if  you  would  go  into  busi- 
ness, and  only  break  rocks  and  pull 
plants  to  bits  in  your  leisure  hours  "i 
You  will  not  be  vexed  with  me  ?  It  is 
a  noble  work  to  interpret  the  rocks  ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  frogs  and  fishes — " 

"  Of  course,  Honora,  I  shall  never 
give  up  my  work,"  with  emphasis.  "You 
must  marry  my  hobby  for  plants  and 
frogs,  if  you  marry  me,"  forcing  a  smile. 

She  changed  color,  but  laughed:  "We 
will  talk  of  that  some  other  time,  then. 
But  now  you  will  come  to  church  with 
me,  and  read  a  little  book  I  will  give 
you  .''  Only  an  explanation  of  our  belief. 
Our  faith  must  be  the  same,  Dallas." 

"Well — yes.  I'll  read  it,"  with  a 
perplexed  frown.  "In  fact,  I  have  read 
it :  I  saw  how  you  valued  it.  It  was 
but  a  show  of  opinions  to  me,  Honora," 
in  his  doggedest  tone.  "  Out  in  the 
woods  yonder  I  have  seen  something  at 
times  altogether  strong  and  good  under 
all  the  beauty  and  contrivance  ;  but  I 
do  not  see  Him  in  those  opinions  of  the 
preachers.  He  is  both  narrow  and  cruel, 
according  to  them.  As  for  church,  the 
crowd,  and  the  dress,  and  the  forms 
drive  good  thoughts  away  from  me.  It 
is  in  quiet  and  alone  I  would  find  Him, 
il  at  all ;  and  I  would  rather  not  receive 
Him  second-hand  through  the  brains  of 
other  men.  I'm  afraid  I  never  will  be  a 
church-goer,  Honora." 

Honora  looked  at  him  steadily.  In 
that  early  moment  there  reached  her  the 
consciousness  which  generally  comes 
after  years  of  married  life,  of  the  insolu- 
ble differences  of  character  and  of  creed 
which  love  can  never  destroy.  She  had 
a  foresight  keen  as  intuition  :  there  was 
not  a  struggle  which  might  come  between 
her  prejudices  and  his  obstinacy  which 
was  not  plain  to  her.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  with  a  loving  faith, 
different  from  any  that  yet  had  shone  in 
her  eyes,  she  held  out  both  hands  to  him. 
«'  After  all,  we  will  go  to  Him  on  the  same 
path,"  she  said  quietly. 

Dallas  opened  the  library  door,  and 
at  the  same  moment  Mr.  Galbraith,  his 


tall  figure  tightly  buttoned,  and  blue  with 
cold,  came  in  from  the  outer  hall. 

"  It's  a  nipping  night,  Dallas,"  rub- 
bing his  hands  as  he  hurried  to  the  fire  : 
then  he  stopped  suddenly  on  seeing  their 
faces  as  they  stood  together.  Honora 
ran  to  him.  "  So,  little  one  ?"  he  said 
slowly,  putting  his  arm  about  her.    "  So  ?" 

Dallas  stopped  in  the  shadow  by  the 
door.  There  was  not  the  keen  flash  of 
pleasure  in  his  grandfather's  face  which 
he  had  thought  to  see  there.  It  was 
anxious,  almost  stern,  as  he  stooped 
over  Nora  with  his  old  habitual  motion, 
stroking  her  hair. 

"  You  know  the  story  we  have  come 
to  tell  you,  I  think,  sir,"  said  Dallas. 

Mr.  Galbraith  turned  to  him  with 
quick  attention,  but  made  no  answer. 

It  happened  that  Dallas  had  stopped 
in  the  same  place  where  he  had  stood  a 
year  before,  a  convict.  The  fire,  as  then, 
burned  low,  and  the  light  was  dim.  It 
brought  the  scene  back  before  him  so 
real,  that  the  old  sense  of  being  con- 
demned and  trampled  under  foot  re- 
turned as  bitter  as  it  had  been  before. 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  you  and  Honora 
together,"  he  said,  boldly,  "  I  felt  that  if 
I  had  no  weight  to  carry  unknown  to 
other  men,  I  had  a  right  to  be  a  nearer 
friend  to  either  of  you  than  any  man  be- 
side. If  I  have  justified  that  right  to 
you,  sir,  I  ask  3'ou  to  give  her  to  me." 

Mr.  Galbraith's  silence  lasted  so  long 
that  Honora,  in  a  frightened,  pale  flurry, 
began  to  pat  his  cheeks  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  with  womanly 
tact  to  fill  up  the  pause  before  Dallas 
should  notice  it.  "  You  know,  uncle  dear, 
when  first  we  met  Dallas  in  the  moun- 
tain by  the  quarry.  He  seemed  quite 
different  to  me  then  from —  I  mean — " 
blushing  crimson.  "I —  Though  I 
don't  suppose  he  noticed  me!''' 

"In  the  mountain  by  the  quarry  ?" 
the  searching  look  still  upon  him. 

Dallas  was  silent.  He  had  crept  over 
the  wall  like  a  thief  in  the  night  to  win 
his  prize,  and  the  sense  of  meanness  and 
defeat  secretly  dragged  his  soul  in  the 
dust.  But  was  this  a  time  to  bring  out 
his  secret  ?  To  thrust  her  from  him 
when  she  was  in  his  hands  ? 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


207 


Honora,  after  trying  to  read  her 
uncle's  face,  gave  an  audible  sob. 

"  Yes  ;  Nonny.  yes,"  hurriedly.  "  I 
have  no  right,  Dallas,  to  keep  you  from 
the  wife  whom  God  has  given  to  you. 
But  she  has  been  my  darling  so  long  ! 
■I  could  have  wished — "  interrupting  him- 
self hastily.  "  If  you  can  touch  her 
hand  to-day  feeling  that  you  are,  as  you 
say,  worthy  of  her  love,  in  God's  name 
take  it." 

For  a  moment  Dallas  did  not  move. 
But  Honora,  with  a  swift  motion,  at 
once  indignant  and  shy,  which  brought 
a  smile  from  both  men,  went  Xc.  him  and 
put  her  hand  in  his  :  "  Worthy  !  worthy  ! 
Why,  he  is  your  own  son  Dallas  !  You 
are  cold,  cruel !  I  did  not  think  that  you 
would  turn  against  us  and  make  every- 
thing wretched,  as  you  are  doing." 

Mr.  Galbraith  answered  with  a  sad 
smile :  "  I  am  not  cold,  God  knows, 
Honora.  So  be  it,  then  :  I  think  God 
will  bless  you."  He  turned,  and  was 
passing  them  to  go  out,  but  suddenly 
stopped  before  them.  "  I'm  an  old  man, 
Dallas  ;  but  I  have  never  known  a  happy 
marriage  where  there  was  not  perfect 
confidence.  The  world  has  no  right, 
perhaps,  to  your  secrets.  But  your  wife 
should  know  the  worst  which  is  within 
your  breast  before  she  lays  her  head 
there."  He  wrung  the  boy's  hand,  and 
left  them. 

Dallas  gave  a  short,  surly  laugh  :  "Are 
you  afraid  of  any  secret  viper  which  I 
have  hidden,  Honora  ?" 

But  Honora  did  not  laugh  :  "  I  sup- 
pose every  one  will  give  us  advice.  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  say  whose  duty 
it  will  be  to  give  up  when  we  differ." 

"  Differ,  Nora  !  There  will  never  be 
a  thought  on  which  we  will  not  be  one  ! 
Do  you  not  feel  that .'"' 

'■  Oh.  of  course  I  feel  it,"  with  a  queer 
little  smile.  "Still  it  is  as  well  to  know 
that  it  is  right  for  the  woman  to  give  up 
in  case  of  emergencies."  But  she  spoke 
as  if  she  was  tired  and  jaded.  Her 
uncle's  coldness  had  hurt  and  disap- 
pointed her  perhaps  more  than  she  chose 
to  tell.  "  And  I  was  startled,  too,  by  an 
odd  feeling  which  I  had,  Dallas,"  she 
said,  thoughtfully ;    "  though  one   often 


fancies  that  we  have  gone  through  parts 
of  our  lives  before,  long  ago.  But  when 
you  stood  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
book-cases,  and  I  went  to  you  and  put 
my  hand  in  yours,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
it  was  not  for  the  first  time.  It  con- 
fuses me — "  passing  her  hand  wearily 
over  her  eyes. 

Dallas  took  it  down.  "  Such  fancies 
are  common,  my  darling,"  he  said  hastily, 
and  began  to  tell  her  how  dear  she  was 
to  him — how  in  all  the  days  of  that  wild 
hfe  on  the  Plains  his  heart  had  cried 
out  for  her.  But  even  while  he  spoke 
he  glanced  uneasily  over  her  shoulder  to 
where  the  mountains  lay  gray  and  spec- 
tral in  the  night,  up  which  the  deserted 
roads  wound.  There  was  not  an  hour 
in  which  the  chance  of  detection  did  not 
dog  him :  it  had  its  voices  echoing 
Lizzy's  cry,  "  He  is  on  your  track — on 
your  track  !"  It  would  lay  in  wait  for 
him  even  here,  in  his  wife's  love. 

As  the  image  of  his  old  enemy  rose 
up  before  him,  his  face  hardened,  and  an 
ugly  look  came  into  his  eyes  that  boded 
ill  for  Laddoun.  Whatever  of  good  there 
was  in  the  man  that  had  raised  him 
above  all  the  vice  and  folly  of  his  early 
years,  was,  under  the  present  temptation, 
the  strongest  element  in  him  for  evil. 
The  very  persistence  and  obstinacy  that 
had  beaten  down  the  demons  that  would 
have  held  him  fast,  would  now  beat  down 
to  death  the  man  who  stood  between  him 
and  the  bountiful,  more  generous  life  that 
opened  before  him. 

The  time  for  revenge,  if  it  had  ever 
been,  had  gone  now  ;  but  the  determi- 
nation to  suffer  no  more  was  more 
cruel  in  him  than  any  spirit  of  ven- 
geance could  have  been. 

And  all  the  worse  for  Laddoun. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be,  my  son  V 
Madam  Galbraith  patted  Dallas'  hard 
hand  with  her  own  bony,  wrinkled  fing- 
ers, looking  at  it  as  she  might  have  done 
at  her  baby's  long  ago.     She  broke  into 


2o8 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


a  hurried,  abrupt  laugh  now  and  then, 
but  the  water  stood  in  her  eyes. 
«  To-day,  if  Honora  is  willing." 
"  To-day  !  Upon  my  soul,  boy,  you 
carry  on  your  wooing  as  they  did  in  the 
days  of  the  old  Indian-fighters  !  To-day? 
James,  do  you  hear  the  lad  ?  Call  Ho- 
nora. She  shall  consent,  she  shall  con- 
sent !  I  will  take  your  part,  Dallas  !'" 
with  smothered  delight.  She  rapped 
with  her  hickory  staff  on  the  floor,  and 
sat  up  erect  in  the  bed,  the  white  night- 
gown, with  its  broad  frills,  making  the 
swarthy  countenance  and  gray  hair  more 
strong  and  unwomanly.  Since  the  fail- 
ure of  her  great  scheme  a  singular  dis- 
ease mastered  her  now  and  then — a 
sudden,  uncontrollable  weakness  and 
lack  of  nervous  power.  It  was  the 
price  she  paid  for  the  savage  control 
with  which  all  her  life  she  had  held  her 
body  down :  when  it  refused  to  serve 
her  now,  she  uttered  no  complaints,  but 
stretched  herself  out  without  a  pillow  on 
her  hard  mattress,  and  lay  there  in  si- 
lence, looking  not  unlike  the  grim,  hard- 
beaked  Crusaders  in  the  old  churches, 
stiffened  into  stone  on  top  of  their 
graves,  waiting  their  call. 

"  I  must  get  up,"  pounding  more  ve- 
hemently with  her  staff.  "  I  am  myself 
again.  It  is  the  thought  that  I  shall 
keep  you  with  me  always,  my  son,  that 
has  cured  me.  When  your  children 
come  to  put  their  hands  on  me,  I  will 
grow  young  again,  and  the  old  dragon 
may  live  for  ever.  Who  knows  ?"  with 
a  nervous  laugh. 

Mrs.  Duffield  came  in  with  Honora. 
There  were  dark  hollows  under  her  eyes, 
as  though  she  had  not  slept  through  the 
night.  Early  this  morning  she  had  gone 
into  Honora's  room,  and  dressed  her  ac- 
cording to  her  own  taste,  putting  the 
little  bunch  of  mignonette,  which  she 
wore  every  morning  the  year  round,  on 
the  girl's  bosom  instead  of  her  own  ; 
and  then  she  herself  had  donned  a  cap. 
Only  a  square  bit  of  lace,  but  significant 
to  her  as  a  nun's  veil.  When  Dallas 
came  up  to  them,  she  watched  him  and 
Honora,  blushing  like  a  girl,  so  forgetful 
of  herself,  her  eyes  so  full  of  happy 
tears,  that  it  was  his  mother  to  whom 


Dallas  gave  his  good-morning  kiss,  and 
not  his  bride. 

"  Honora,"  going  straight  to  his  point 
as  usual,  "  I  know  nothing  of  the  usual 
customs,  but  I  do  not  understand  why  a 
mob  of  strangers  should  come  to  hear 
us  say  we  love  each  other,  nor  why  we 
should  not  say  it  at  once  if  it  be  true. 
I  wish  you  to  allow  me  to  send  over  for 
Mr.  Rattlin  this  evening,  and  he  will 
say  a  prayer  over  us  to  keep  away  the 
ill-luck  for  ever.  And.  so  our  story 
will  end."  He  would  not  even  touch 
her  hand  before  them  all ;  but  his  look 
was  a  caress  before  which  she  drew 
back. 

Now  Honora  had  meant  to  spend  two 
or  three  months  in  fasting  and  preparing,, 
making  herself  inwardly  pure  before  she 
began  her  new  life.  It  was  an  old  fancy 
she  had. 

"  It  is  all  arranged,  Honora,"  said  the 
old  lady,  impatiently,  reaching  over  for 
her  dressing-gown.  "  I  want  to  see  my 
boy  happy.  I  like  his  manner  of  wooing; 
though  of  course,  if  you  object,  we  will 
hear  what  3'ou  have  to  say." 
Honora  said  nothing. 
"  You  shall  do  as  you  wish,  my  dar- 
ling," Dallas  whispered. 

"  I  wish  to  please  you,"  after  a  pause, 
with  a  subjugated  sigh. 

"  Then  it's  all  settled  !"  Madam  Gal- 
braith  grew  purple  with  dehght  and  ex- 
citement. "  Honora  is  generally  bid- 
dable. Go  out,  good  people,  all  of  you. 
I  must  be  up  and  dressed.  A  wedding 
in  the  house  at  a  day's  notice  !  Ah, 
Dallas,  so  the  Dours  used  to  carry  it  in 
the  old  time  !" 

Mrs.  Duffield  touched  Honora's  cold 
cheek  when  they  were  outside,  and  then 
kissed  it — a  most  rare  sign  of  feeling : 
"Go  now:  you  want  to  be  alone,  child. 
I  will  attend  to  your  dress — everything. 
I  am  your  mother  now." 

In  ten  minutes  Madam  Galbraith  re- 
called lier.  "/  dress  in  military  time, 
my  dear."  Already  she  had  the  floor 
and  bed  covered  with  the  contents  of 
sundry  presses  and  enormous  closets. 
"  We  must  see  what  we  can  do  for  the 
young  people,  eh  ?  Glorious,  sunshiny 
weather  !      I   think  my  plans  were  tol- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


209 


erably  successful,"  chuckling,  as  she  un- 
locked drawer  after  drawer. 

"  You  do  not  mean — " 

<>  That  I  brought  them  together  ?  As- 
suredly. /  saw  the  propriety  of  it  the 
very  day  that  Dallas  arrived.  I  wanted 
him  to  marrj.-  among  his  own  people. 
And  Honora  is  very  suitable,  very  easily 
controlled.  What  do  you  think  of  these 
cameos  ?  I'll  give  the  child  all  my  jewelry. 
Only  a  married  woman  should  wear  jew- 
elry. And  I  have  some  silks  and  velvets, 
never  cut,  here.  But,  tut !  tut !  velvet  and 
silk  !  the  poor  children  will  be  paupers  !" 

"  Dallas  will  be  quite  able  to  support 
his  wife,"  proudly. 

"  Yes  ;  he's  as  solid  as  granite.  A 
very  different  character,  my  dear,  from 
my  other  son,  Thomas,"  stopping  with 
an  awkward  cough  as  she  remembered 
to  whom  she  spoke,  and  ringing  the  bell 
violently  :  "  Send  for  Mrs.  Beck  imme- 
diately. The  house  must  be  set  in 
order  and  supper  prepared.  And  good 
Mrs.  Rattlin.  I'll  feel  more  at  ease 
when  I  have  my  staff  about  me.  Come, 
my  dear,  and  see  what  I  have  laid  away 
for  Honora." 

Mrs.  Duffield  followed,  nothing  loth. 
Any  true  woman  finds  a  press  full  of  fine 
linen  as  fair  a  sight  as  a  field  of  daisies. 
Up  and  down  the  old  woman  dragged 
her,  nothing  slacking  in  her  zeal,  bring- 
ing to  light  great  stores  of  which  nobody 
knew  but  herself,  repeating  again  and 
again  :  "  I  put  by  for  the  child  as  if  she 
had  been  my  own.  I  little  thought  it 
would  all  come  back  to  Tom's  boy." 

Mr.  Galbraith  found  her  seated  at 
noon,  exhausted,  before  a  heaped  table 
of  old  lace,  which  she  had  been  sorting. 
There  was  a  light  in  her  face  which  had 
not  been  there  since  the  days  when  they 
were  first  married.  She  made  him  sit 
down  beside  her,  putting  her  hand  on  his 
knee,  chattering  gossip  like  any  girl. 

"  The  fellow  has  your  desire  to  shut 
out  the  world  when  he  is  in  gi-eat  pain 
or  joy,  I  see.  Morbid,  but  I  understand  it. 
Well,  we'll  have  the  county  in  another 
time.  I've  nothing  to  give  the  children 
but  this  poor  housewifery,  James." 

"  There  will  be  the  old  house  and  bit 
of  land  wlien  we  are  gone,  Hannah." 
14 


"Yes.  That  is  yours."  She  sat 
thoughtful  a  long  time,  and  then  turning 
to  him,  said  :  "  I  am  glad  it  is  yours.  I 
never  have  spoken  to  you  of  it  before, 
James,  but  the  happiest  day  of  my  life 
was  that  when  I  first  slept  under  my  hus-  ' 
band's  roof,  and  knew  that  1  was  depend- 
ent on  his  work  for  the  very  bread  1  ate." 

The  old  scholar  stroked  his  gray  beard 
softly,  and  made  her  no  reply.  But 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  his 
accustomed  habit  that  evening,  he  hum- 
med a  tune — some  gay  old  song  which 
he  used  to  sing  in  the  days  when  he  was 
a  gallant  young  fellow,  and  meant  to  con- 
quer the  world,  giving  furtive,  proud 
glances  toward  his  wife.  Never,  in  her 
fairest  days,  had  she  seemed  so  womanly 
to  him  as  now. 

Of  course,  the  house  was  in  a  ferment 
all  day  long.  The  sun  outside  shone 
brightly— within,  the  fires  flashed  and 
crackled.  There  was  not  a  woman,  from 
motherly  Mrs.  Rattlin  to  Jinny  the  scul- 
lerj'-maid,  whose  heart  did  not  beat  fast 
as  though  she  was  the  bride,  and  who 
did  not  find  time  in  the  high-tide  of  pre- 
paration to  run  in  now  and  then  to  Ho- 
nora with  some  tender  offer  of  service. 
Mrs.  Duffield  wandered  about  the  house, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  irresolute 
and  incapable. 

Colonel  Pervis  found  her  toward  dusk 
in  the  dining-room.  He  had  taken  charge 
of  the  whole  affair,  and  with  the  glee  of 
a  dozen  boys  in  his  red  face,  was  going 
in  and  out,  and  up  and  down  the  country- 
side, under  high-pressure  power,  scatter- 
ing the  news  far  and  wide.  He  steamed 
into  harbor  for  a  moment  to  the  side- 
board, and  finding  the  pretty  little  widow 
alone,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand, 
thought,  as  he  drank  ofl^  his  hastily-made 
cobbler,  that  whatever  heart  she  had  was 
bound  up  in  that  boy,  and  that  she  was 
cursedly  cut  loose  from  her  moorings 
to-day. 

"  By  George,  madam !"  wiping  his 
moustache,  "  I  think  when  povertv  came 
into  the  door  of  this  house  good-luck 
besieged  the  windows  !" 

Her  eyes  sparkled.  "  With  Dallas  ? 
But  I  wished  to  speak  to  you,  Colonel 
Pervis.     It  must  be  evident  to  you  that 


210 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


I  cannot  stay  with  the  good-luck.  I 
cannot  be  the  drone  of  the  hive.  We 
count  the  cost  here  now  from  day  to  day 
necessarily,  and  my  son  will  have  enough 
weight  to  carry  with  a  wife,  and  half  of 
his  income  gone  to  the  orphans  with  Mr. 
Rattlin." 

The  Colonel  concocted  another  cob- 
bler, and  muttered  something  about  in- 
fernal folly.  "  I  mean,"  he  added  has- 
tily, aloud,  "that  there  is  a  drop  of 
Quixotic  blood  in  Dallas.  Very  re- 
markable in  so  practical  a  fellow." 

"  There  are  very  few  persons  who  can 
comprehend  my  son,"  complacently. 
"But  I  must  go.  I  trust  to  you  to 
make  the  explanations  here  as  easy  as 
possible  for  me." 

"  I'll  smooth  matters  over  for  you," 
putting  down  his  glass  and  corking  the 
bottles,  with  his  back  to  her,  in  silence, 
as  if  at  a  loss  for  words.  Then  he  came 
up  to  the  table  by  which  she  sat,  and 
stood,  balancing  his  portly  body  on  heel 
and  toe,  twisting  the  end  of  his  whiskers. 
"  I'll  smooth  matters  ;  but  it  must  be  in 
my  own  way.  I've  a  conscience  of  my 
own,  Mrs.  Duffield.  I'm  your  friend, 
madam  ;  and  you  know  when  you  were 
a  child  your  friends  crossed  you  for  your 
own  good."  Here,  his  courage  oozing 
out  altogether,  he  stopped  to  cough. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Colo- 
nel Pervis,"  coldly. 

"  I  mean  that  I've  carried  these 
cursed  bonds  until  they  burned  my 
pocket,  and  I'll  carry  them  no  longer  !" 
throwing  the  envelope  on  the  table. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam  ;  but,  upon 
my  soul,  the  flesh  is  wearing  off  my 
bones  with  the  responsibility  of  them." 

"  Do  you  tell  me,"  rising  haughtily, 
"  that  you  have  not  applied  my  money, 
as  I  desired,  to  the  use  of  the  sufferers  ?" 

"  Not  a  red  cent  of  it !  I  say  now, 
Dallas  and  you  may  play  Don  Quixote  if 
you  like,  but  you'll  have  to  find  another 
Sancho  Panza.  It's  not  in  John  Per- 
vis. Now,  don't  say  a  word  !"  backing 
to  the  door,  his  hand  up.  "  Get  some- 
body else.  Dour's  your  man.  But, 
thank  God,  I've  washed  my  hands  of 
them  !" 

"  You  had  no  right  to  thwart  me,  sir," 


her  fair  flesh  flushing  to  her  verj'  bosom, 
red  with  anger.  But  the  Colonel  was  gone, 
and  the  door  shut  hastily  behind  him. 
The  next  moment  she  saw  him  hurrying 
to  the  stables,  and  laughed  nervously. 
She  took  up  the  envelope  presently, 
which  smelled  horribly  of  tobacco  and 
brandy :  she  tore  it  off",  and  turned  over 
wistfully  the  blue-lettered  papers.  Then 
she  went  slowly  to  her  own  room,  looked 
out  of  the  window  for  a  while,  and  then, 
in  an  absent,  careless  way,  unlocked  a 
private  drawer  and  put  them  in  their  old 
place,  hanging  the  key  to  her  chatelaine. 

She  went  down  a  few  moments  after, 
and  was  sweeter  and  more  sunny-tem- 
pered than  ever  before.  Madam  Gal- 
braith  had  never  known  her  so  affec- 
tionate. She  even  put  her  peachy 
cheek  to  the  old  lady's  hard  jaws,  and 
whispered,  "  Don't  be  uneasy  about  the 
children.  There'll  be  a  little  to  give 
them  when  I'm  gone,  you  know." 

The  secret,  however,  burned  Pervis' 
brain  as  the  bonds  had  his  pocket,  and 
before  night  he  confided  it  to  Madam 
Galbraith.  "  She  did  not  care  for  the 
poor  wretches  a  picayune,"  he  said. 
"It  was  to  gratify  your  whim  that  she 
would  have  beggared  herself" 

"  To  satisfy  me,  eh  ?  I  did  not  think  it 
was  in  Tom's  wife."  The  old  woman 
made  no  other  remark.  But  she  went 
away  hastily  to  find  James.  She  never  told 
Mrs.  Duffield  that  her  secret  was  known  ; 
but  she  called  her  "  Mary"  that  day  for 
the  first  time  in  her  hfe  ;  and  to  the  day 
of  her  death  she  gave  Mary  the  daugh- 
ter's place  which  she  had  never  held 
before. 

The  sun  went  down  redly,  leaving 
long  bars  of  ruby  light  arching  up  the 
sky.  The  snow  was  crisp  under  Dallas' 
feet  as  he  came  slowly  down  the  hill- 
road  and  stopped  in  the  gate  leading 
into  the  woods,  looking  at  the  house 
before  he  went  in.  The  long  rows  of 
windows  shone  warmly  in  its  massive 
front  against  the  mountain-shadow,  as 
they  had  done  on  the  night  when  he  first 
came  to  this  gate,  haggard  and  shaven, 
from  his  felon's  cell  in  Albany.  Now  he 
was  going  in  as  a  master,  to  be  a  help- 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


HI 


ful  citizen,  caressed  and  obeyed  in  his 
home — the  fairest  woman,  he  thought, 
that  God  ever  made,  to  nestle  in  his 
bosom  as  his  wife.  He  had  gone,  on 
this,  the  day  of  all  days  of  his  life,  to  the 
poor  wretches  at  the  wells  and  to  the 
children  whom  he  had  tried  to  save,  as 
some  men  would  have  gone  to  church, 
and  now  was  coming  home. 

Now,  Dallas  was  no  thinker :  he 
never  speculated  on  the  meaning  of  his 
own  life  or  that  of  others  :  he  was  very 
seldom  conscious,  until  he  saw  their 
effects  in  his  action,  of  the  deep,  vital 
forces  that  had  their  ebb  and  flow  in  his 
soul.  But  a  strange  thing  happened  to 
him  to-day.  As  the  sun  went  down  he 
glanced  about  the  horizon  to  find  indi- 
cations of  snow,  and  then  going  through 
the  woods,  mechanically  broke  off,  as  he 
went,  bits  of  the  twigs  or  bark,  examin- 
ing them.  There  was  a  space  blown 
bare  of  snow  beside  the  trunk  of  a  dead 
ash,  and  turning  up  the  ground  with  his 
foot,  he  picked  out  some  seeds  of  weeds, 
and  stripped  off  the  scaly  layers  in  which 
they  were  sheathed  :  in  the  dead  wood, 
too,  breaking  off  the  bark,  there  were 
the  larv^  of  a  dozen  different  kinds  of 
beetles  and  moths  waiting  for  the  snow 
to  be  gone  to  spring  into  hfe. 

As  Dallas  threw  them  down  carelessly, 
something — the  red  sunbeam,  perhaps, 
flickering  in  his  eyes — brought  before  him, 
as  by  second-sight,  the  vision  of  the  great 
world  in  which  he  hved,  whose  bosom 
was  filled  with  illimitable  myriads  of 
seeds  and  larvae  waiting  for  summer  to 
begin  their  appointed  lives,  the  least  of 
them  to  be  ruled,  useful  and  instinct 
with  beauty — of  the  long  procession  of 
animal  and  vegetable  lives  since  Time 
began,  whose  most  trivial  feature  was 
governed  by  law.  He  stopped,  sat  down 
on  the  crumbling  trunk.  Perhaps  both  his 
brain  and  heart  were  quickened  and  tender 
to-day,  for  with  electric  force  an  insight 
into  the  meaning  of  all  the  knowledge 
he  had  ever  gained  came  to  him :  as  an 
artist  brings  his  ideal  from  the  canvas, 
and  oil,  and  paint  —  a  thought  that 
has  always  been  in  them,  but  not  of 
them.  For  the  first  time,  Dallas  saw 
the  order  beneath   the  life  of  the  larvas, 


of  the  snow  that  killed  it,  of  the  summer 
that  called  it  into  being.  The  old  Jew- 
ish account  of  the  creation  had  always 
been  to  him  a  child's  fable  beside  tlie 
story  written  on  the  rocks.  But  to-day 
he  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  an  in- 
finite truth  that  underlaid  these  grop- 
ings  after  God  of  the  world's  earlier 
days,  as  well  as  the  clearer  insight  of 
later  time — an  eternal  Right,  of  which 
the  order  and  disorder  of  the  world  were 
but  chance  glimpses  that  came  to  us. 
A  living  something  behind  the  dead 
stone,  the  birth  of  the  animal  and  its 
decease — the  something  in  which  this 
dead  wood  would  live  again.  Crumb- 
ling it  in  his  fingers,  even  he  could  see 
creative  skill  in  it — ^justice,  and  a  terrible 
human  element,  beyond  justice. 

What  if  this  Right  held  human  lives 
also  ?  His  own,  with  its  paltry,  every- 
day chances  ? 

Dallas  Galbraith  rose  and  bared  his 
head.  His  face  was  pale,  and  awe- 
struck as  the  savage  who  sees  his  God 
in  the  sunshine.  What  if  his  own  life 
had  been  underlaid  by  the  same  eternal 
strength  ?  What  if  there  had  been  in  it  no 
wrong,  no  chance,  which  was  not  ordered 
by  the  same  loving  purpose  ?  He  went 
on  slowly,  his  lips  set,  his  thoughts 
turned  inward,  as  never  before,  to  find 
what  manner  of  man  he  was,  and  to  test 
what  Circumstance  had  done  to  him. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  bitter  pov- 
erty without,  would  he  ever  have  clung 
so  desperately  to  his  real  work,  and 
made  himself  a  man  by  mastering  it  ? 
If  it  had  not  been  for  those  years  in  the 
convict's  cell  and  the  stain  on  him  now, 
would  he  have  met  fate  with  such  stub- 
born endurance  ?  would  he  have  known 
the  patient  tenderness  for  the  wretched 
and  the  guilty  which  made  him  now  like 
a  woman  before  them  '^. 

Never.  He  could  see  the  uses  of  it 
all  now.  He  raised  his  head  and  walked 
on,  his  step  elastic,  his  heart  throbbing, 
full  and  light.  Immeasurable  content 
wrapped  him  as  the  beautiful  world 
floated  to  her  rest  in  the  sunshine.  It 
is  so  easy  as  we  enter  heaven  to  under- 
stand the  discipline  of  earth  ;  and  Dallas, 
with  his  hand  upon  the  door  of  home, 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


thought  his  final  reward  had  come.  If 
Laddoun  never  crossed  his  path  again, 
he  could  see  how  the  ill-luck  which  he 
fe.ncied  had  always  been  against  him 
had  borne  its  part  in  this  all-embracing 
order,  this  good,  which  you  could  call 
God  if  you  would.  If  he  came  again — 
and  the  old  cloud  came  into  Dallas'  eyes. 
One  can  so  much  more  readily  see  God 
in  the  flood  that  destroyed  the  world 
tlian  in  the  accident  which  crosses  our 
own  purpose. 

He  went  in  with  a  softened,  gentle 
step.  The  open  rooms  were  lighted  and 
dressed  with  evergreen ;  but  there  was  a 
great  silence  in  the  house.  He  met  Mr. 
Rattlin,  who  wrung  his  hand  with  all  the 
heart  that  filled  his  httle  body.  He  met  his 
mother,  placid  and  lovely,  in  a  pure  dress 
of  white,  and  she  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissed  him.  He  ran  lightly  up 
to  his  own  luxurious  chamber,  bathed 
and  dressed.  It  was  his  wedding-night. 
Every  sight  and  sound,  the  far-off  laugh- 
ter and  voices,  the  very  cold  water,  as  it 
touched  him,  wakened  in  him  a  keen 
sense  of  dehght.  His  feet  had  touched 
ground  at  last.  Under  all  thoughts  of 
home  or  the  sweet  woman's  life  which 
was  to  run  henceforth  in  the  same  chan- 
nel with  his  own,  was  a  deep,  abiding 
sense  of  security,  of  good. 

Provided,  Laddoun  never  returned. 

They  were  all  gathered  in  the  library 
when  he  came  down.  There  were  no 
shadows  in  it  now.  The  last  rays  of  the 
red  sunset  looked  long  through  the 
western  windows  this  evening,  with 
their  kindly  good-bye — soft  astral  lamps, 
like  globes  of  moonlight,  shone  here  and 
there.  The  great,  many-colored  coal 
fire  burned  cheerfully.  Otherwise,  there 
was  no  change  here  ;  only  the  little  home 
fKirty  that  gathered  about  the  fire  every 
evening ;  and  Dallas  went  in  and  sat 
down  among  them. 

"  Of  all  the  weddings  I  ever  have 
seen,"  Mr.  Rattlin  said  to  him,  with  sup- 
pressed feeling,  "  yours,  Dallas,  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  tenderest  and  most  solemn  ; 
as  if  it  were  from  the  every-day,  home 
life  here  that  this  new,  beautiful  flower 
of  love  had  bloomed." 

Presently  her    uncle    went    to    bring 


Honora  ;  and  then  Peggy,  and  Beck,  and 
old  Henkel,  and  the  servants  silently 
came  in  and  filled  up  the  background. 
When  Mr.  Galbraith  opened  the  door 
again,  Dallas  went  to  meet  him  and  the 
pure  little  girl  dressed  in  white  that  he 
held  by  the  hand.  They  said  afterward 
that  Honora  never  looked  so  like  her 
dead  mother  as  she  did  on  that  night. 

"You  are  not  afraid  to  give  her  to 
me  ?"  Dallas  asked  in  a  whisper,  his  blue 
eyes  meeting  the  old  man's  steadily. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  he  answered,  but 
with  whitening  hps,  and  detached  his 
hand  from  her  fingers.  "  Go,  Honora. 
God  make  you  true  to  each  other,  my 
children." 

It  seemed  to  Dallas  that  then  the 
prayer  had  been  said  which  made  them 
one.  He  scarcely  heard  the  words 
which  Mr.  Rattlin  uttered  over  them. 
The  invisible  something  which  held 
them  all  was  warm  and  close  about  him 
as  the  sunshine  to  the  bird  that  floats  in 
it;  and  the  old  man's  love  had  in  some 
way  spoken  for  it  and  made  it  real. 

The  rosy  glow  died  out  of  the  west 
while  they  were  crowding  about  Dallas 
and  his  little  wife,  kissing  them,  laughing 
and  crying,  joking  foolishly  as  people 
with  over-full  hearts  will  do.  The  sud- 
den winter  twilight  came  on.  "  Close 
the  shutters,  Henkel,"  said  Colonel  Per- 
vis.  "  I've  no  faith  in  omens,  Dallas, 
my  boy,  or  I  would  be  vexed  by  a 
shadow  that  seemed  to  peer  at  you  from 
that  window  at  your  back  when  you  took 
Honora's  hand  in  yours  —  a  man's 
mocking  face,  white  as  death.  I  see 
now  that  it  was  but  the  waving  of  the 
branches  outside  in  the  lamplight.  By 
the  Lord,  there  it  is  again  !" 

"  I  see  nothing,"  said  Madam  Gal- 
braith. 

But  Honora  clung  to  Dallas  with  a 
cry  of  terror,  for  he  had  pushed  her  be- 
hind him,  as  if  to  save  her  from  some 
peril  that  menaced  them,  and  bent  for- 
ward, going  to  the  window  slowl}',  step 
by  step  —  following,  one  might  think, 
some  ghost  that  had  beckoned  him  and 
disappeared  in  the  night. 

They  crowded  to  the  other  windows. 
"  I  see  nothing  but  the  shadows  of  the 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


213 


woods  ;  there  is  no  foreboding  in  them. 
Why  do  you  prophesy  ill-hick  for  Dal- 
las ?"  cried  Madam  Galbraith  angrily, 
for  she  had  faith  in  omens. 

Dallas  turned  quickly.  "Why,  it 
is  nothing,"  he  said.  "  No,  you  shall 
not  go  out  to  search,  Colonel  Pervis. 
If  it  is  ill-luck  that  haunts  me  in  the 
shadow  you  have  seen,  why,  then  it — 
is  but  a  shadow." 

He  laughed,  and  after  a  moment 
laughed   again.     But   they,    looking   at 


him,  seeing  such  strange  matter  in  his 
face,  and  how  suddenly  cruel  the  eyes 
had  grown,  did  not  laugh  with  him. 
Honora,  feeling  how  cold  and  clammy 
was  the  hand  she  held,  drew  it  the 
closer  in  her  own ;  and  she  and  the 
grave  old  scholar,  whose  love  had  made 
their  insight  deeper  than  the  others, 
knew  that  the  young  husband  had  also 
seen  the  shadowy  face  ;  and  they  knew 
with  unerring  instinct  that  Dallas  Gal- 
braith, hunted  down,  stood  at  bay. 


PART     X. 


THERE  was  a  little  toll-gate  about 
half-way  down  the  hill  from  the 
Galbraith  house.  Old  Potter,  the  keeper, 
had  let  fall  the  rail,  and  fastened  up  doors 
and  windows  for  the  night,  and,  with  his 
wife,  was  brewing  a  whisky-stew  over 
tlie  fire,  to  cheer  their  hearts  before  they 
betook  themselves  to  bed,  when  the  door 
was  roughly  shaken,  and  through  the 
moaning  of  the  wind  a  man's  voice  was 
heard  outside. 

Potter  thrust  his  gray  poll  through  the 
square  window  :  "  Who's  abroad  in  this 
storm  ?" 

"  Open  the  door,  Dick,  curse  you !  and 
let  me  in.  Can  Bessy  give  me  a  place  to 
sleep  ?     I — I'll  go  no  further  to-night." 

"  For  God's  sake.  Colonel !"  He 
opened  the  door,  and  catching  hold  of 
the  dark  figure  that  lay  half  helpless 
against  it,  helped  him  in,  his  wife  push- 
ing up  the  cane  settee  in  front  of  the 
fire,  exchanging  significant  glances  to- 
gether as  they  took  off  his  dripping 
cloak  and  wet  leggings,  and  seated  him 
in  the  hottest  place.  The  man  swore 
savagely  at  them  and  at  the  storm,  with 
a  fierce  cough  between-times,  that  racked 
and  tore  his  breast,  wringing  out  great 
mouthsful  of  blood.  When  the  paroxysm 
was  over,  he  fell  into  a  silent  exhaustion, 
holding  his  knees  with  his  hands,  his 


head  fallen  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes 
set  on  the  fire.  The  fleshless,  sunken 
face,  with  its  ghastly  blotches,  was 
adorned  with  black,  glossy  hair  and 
whiskers,  carefully  trimmed,  and  the 
white  teeth  and  hard,  black  eyes  shone 
at  times  with  a  jaunty,  cruel  sneer.  His 
clothes,  of  fine  mulberry-colored  cloth, 
worn  threadbare,  hung  baggily  on  a 
bulky,  emaciated  figure :  a  purple  ring 
flamed  on  his  forefinger.  Old  Potter 
scanned  him  from  head  to  foot  medita- 
tively, and  then  shook  his  head,  turning 
away : 

"  You're  welcome  to  a  bed.  Colonel 
Laddoun.  But  you  ought  to  be  in  the 
hands  of  your  friends,  accordin'  to  my 
thinkin'." 

Laddoun  burst  into  a  loud,  hollow 
laugh.  "  I'm  a  hale,  hearty  young  fel- 
low !  It  needs  more  than  doctors'  croak- 
ing to  kill  George  Laddoun  these  twenty 
years  !  I've  been  with  one  of  my 
friends.  He's  a  gallant  young  bride- 
groom to-night." 

"  You've  been  up  at  the  house  ?  Did 
you  see  the  heir  ?"  cried  the  old  woman. 

"  The  heir,  eh  .''  Yes,  I  saw  him.  I'll 
drink  his  health  with  you,  if  you  Hke," 
looking  toward  the  steaming  saucepan. 
Potter  poured  him  out  a  bowlful  and  he 
drank  greedily,  without  waiting  for  them, 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


smacking  his  lips  as  he  set  it  down. 
"The  lieir  !"  with  a  chuckle.  "  You'd  not 
believe  I  crawled  here  from  Panama  to  see 
that  friend  of  mine,  so  dear  he  is  to  me  ? 
They  told  me  I  was  going  under :  every 
cursed  quack  croaked  death  to  me,  and 
I  meant  to  settle  with  him  while  I  was 
above  ground.  I'm  loyal  to  my  friends — 
loyal !"  swelling  and  flourishing  his  bony 
hand  with  something  of  his  old  swagger. 
A  terrible  trembling  seized  him  before  he 
had  done  speaking. 

''  Have  you  settled  with  him  yet  ?" 
said  old  Dick,  steadying  and  seating  him 
again. 

"No.  When  I'm  stronger  I'll  bring 
our  story  to  an  end.  I'm  growing 
stronger.  You  think  so,  Dick  ?"  holding 
his  shirt-sleeve  and  looking  breathlessly 
at  him,  as  though  a  sudden  doubt 
wrenched  him  like  a  spasm. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  Colonel  dear," 
whined  Bessy.  "  Go  to  bed  now — that's 
a  good  soul.  Don't  you  fash  yourseli 
about  gettin'  stronger." 

But  Laddoun  looked  sharply  into  the 
old  man's  face.  "  What  do  you  say. 
Potter  ?  Why,  I've  gained  two  pounds 
in  the  last  month,  eh  .'"' 

Dick  turned  away  from  the  pitiful  at- 
tempt at  a  smile.  "  Come  to  bed,  Colo- 
nel," soothingly.  "  You're  a  man.  You 
oughtn't  to  be  afeard  to  face  the  truth. 
If  you  owe  no  man  nothin',  why  need 
you  be  afeard  ?" 

Laddoun  was  silent,  staggered  to  his 
feet  after  a  while,  and  suflfered  old  Dick 
to  lead  him  out  of  the  room  ;  but  when 
he  regained  his  breath,  Bessy  heard  him 
between  his  chattering  teeth  cursing 
Potter  as  having  linked  himself  to  the 
rest  to  drag  him  into  the  grave.  He 
went  to  sleep  in  good  spirits,  however, 
having  drunk  another  bowlful  of  hquor, 
telling  them  he  was  a  hearty  young  dog, 
as  he  would  prove  before  long. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was 
heard  crying  feebly  for  Dick.  The  two 
men  were  closeted  together  for  a  long 
time  ;  and  when  Potter  came  out  he  was 
very  pale  and  carried  a  small  copper  case 
in  his  hand,  which  he  stored  carefully 
away.  '•  The  Colonel  thinks  it's  nigh 
over  with  him,"  he  told  his  wife,  "  and 


he  gave  me  this.  In  case  of  his  sudden 
death,  I'm  to  deliver  it  into  Madam  Gal- 
braith's  own  hand.  Living  or  dead,  he 
says  he  will  be  square  witli  her  grandson. 
I  doubt  there's  a  shameful  story  between 
them,  too,  that  don't  belong  to  common 
day." 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

The  winter  which  followed  Dallas 
Galbraitli's  marriage  seemed  to  have 
gathered  into  itself  the  rage  of  many 
years.  Old  men  in  that  region  tell 
strange  tales  even  now  of  its  fierce 
and  unprecedented  storms — how  for 
weeks  together  the  sun  was  lost  from 
the  heavens,  that  lowered  in  a  leaden, 
unbroken  plane  over  the  great  Valley  of 
the  Ohio  ;  how  the  wind  cut  a  way  for 
its  mad  fury  through  tlie  vast  forests, 
gorging  the  hill-passes  that  had  barred 
out  the  besieging  storms  of  a  hundred 
years  ;  how  by  night  and  b}'  day  it  went 
wailing  and  shrieking,  like  some  mad, 
damned  soul  let  loose,  through  the 
mountain  defiles,  over  the  desolate 
stretches  of  snow,  the  frozen  rivers — 
past  the  windows  of  the  lonely  farm- 
houses, making  the  dwellers  within 
shiver  and  creep  closer  together,  as 
though  some  human  creature  in  deadly 
straits  cried  to  them  for  help  which  they 
dared  not  give. 

For  weeks  no  living  being  could  ven- 
ture abroad,  so  deep  were  the  pitfalls 
beneath  the  soft,  dazzling,  treacherous 
waste.  The  great  Galbraith  ruin,  colony 
and  wells,  was  blotted  out  from  the 
landscape.  Nothing  was  left  but  the 
vast  volume  of  snow  that  threatened  to 
bury  once  and  for  all  the  solemn  moun- 
tains, petulant  rivers  and  commonplace 
farm-houses  under  its  calm  monotony, 
gentle  and  inflexible  as  death. 

As  Christmas  drew  near,  however, 
and  the  storm  abated  for  a  few  days,  tlie 
men  in  the  hills  began  to  creep  out  and 
dig  paths  from  one  dwelling  to  the  other. 
There  was  a  sort  of  hilarious  warmth 
shut  into  every  farm-house.     The  snow 


2l6 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


augured  well  for  the  crops  of  next  year  ; 
and  then  the  poorest  log-house  in  these 
mountains  had  its  smoke-house  filled 
with  pork  and  onions,  its  stores  of  dried 
fish  and  fruit.  It  was  good  to  have  a 
respite  from  work,  to  sit  down  and  enjoy 
their  keenest  delight  in  Hfe — well-cooked 
victuals  :  the  ox-faced  men  sat  knitting 
blue  woollen  socks  with  the  women 
about  the  kitchen  hearths  until  early 
dusk,  when  the  fires  were  slaked,  and 
they  went  to  bed,  full  of  the  same  sort 
of  happiness  as  the  bears  in  their  bur- 
rows yonder. 

Colonel  Pervis  and  Mr.  Rattlin,  with 
Dour,  forced  their  way  up  to  the  Gal- 
braith  homestead  one  day,  arriving  late 
in  the  afternoon,  when  a  threatening 
tide  of  cloud,  rising  from  the  north, 
foreboded  a  fiercer  outbreak  of  the 
storm.  They  were  powdered  with  snow, 
their  faces  red  as  blood,  and  the  icicles 
formed  on  their  beards  ;  but  they  shouted 
like  school-boys  on  a  frohc  when  they 
reached  the  massive,  warmly-lighted  pile 
of  buildings  half-way  up  the  mountain, 
and  began  to  thunder  at  the  outer  gate. 
The  whole  family  came  out  to  welcome 
them.  Two  weeks  had  passed  since 
they  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  outer 
world. 

"We  fought  our  way  up  inch  by 
inch,"  said  Colonel  Pervis,  as  they  stop- 
ped to  breathe  and  stamp  off  the  snow. 
"  We  were  determined  to  bring  Dallas 
the  treasures  he  gathered  in  New 
Mexico.  The  box  arrived  weeks  ago. 
Gently,  Henkel,  gently  !  Mr.  Dallas' 
fame  and  fortune  may  lie  in  that  case." 
He  pushed  Joe  away,  and  anxiously 
helped  Dallas  carry  it  in. 

One  would  have  thought  the  fame  and 
fortune  of  the  whole  party  lay  in  the 
case,  to  see  the  breathless  zeal  with 
which  they  dusted  the  snow  from  it 
and  hung  over  Dallas  as  he  pried  off  the 
boards.  They  hfted  it  on  the  great  hall 
table ;  and  the  Colonel  and  his  com- 
panions, warmed  by  a  visit  to  the  fire 
and  sideboard,  crowded  up  with  the 
others. 

Dallas'  color  went  and  came  as  he 
put  the  boards  on  the  floor.  "  All  my 
specimens  are  here,"  he  said.      "  There 


are  some  I  never  could  replace.  I  can 
hardly  hope  they  are  not  broken." 

"  Henkel,  you  can  call  the  people  in  to 
look,  if  you  wish,"  said  Madam  Gal- 
braith,  as  though  speaking  down  from  a 
height.  "  These  are  things  which  your 
young  master  collected  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  government,  you  understand.'"' 
The  people,  not  very  far  off,  speedily  ap- 
peared, open  mouthed. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silent  sus- 
pense. Dallas  stopped,  with  his  hand 
on  the  first  wrapper,  and  looked  about 
uneasily. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Honora,  touching 
his  elbow. 

He  smiled,  drew  up  a  chair  for  her, 
and  then  lifted  the  wrappers.  Mr.  Ratt- 
lin, who  knew  no  more  about  the  stones 
or  dried  plants  than  if  they  had  been 
Indian  hieroglyphics,  came  up  close,  the 
heart  in  his  spare  little  body  beating  hot 
and  fast.  It  was  the  faces  of  the  little 
home  group  that  touched  him.  The  in- 
tentness,  the  awe,  the  pride  with  which 
they  looked  at  Dallas.  The  breathless 
anxiety  with  which  they  followed  every 
motion  of  his  fingers  as  he  unwrapped 
each  specimen  ;  the  buzz  of  rehef  when 
it  was  found  safe  ;  the  reverence  with 
which  they  listened  to  his  explanations. 
As  he  laid  each  one  down,  his  mother 
and  Honora  ("their  sleeves  pinned  care- 
fully up  for  fear  of  breakage)  carried 
them  up  to  another  table  nearer  the  fire, 
holding  their  breath  until  they  laia  them 
safely  down.  Mr.  Galbraith,  his  spec- 
tacles on  and  a  pile  of  books  before  him, 
was  at  his  elbow,  with  pencil  and  paper, 
noting  every  word  down  eagerly. 

"  I  have  been  studying  lately  under 
my  son,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Rattlin,  by  way 
of  explanation.  "  But  I  have  only  mas- 
tered the  rudiments  of  his  profession,  sir. 
I  wish  I  could  have  advanced  a  little 
farther  before  this  box  arrived ;"  and  then 
back  again,  with  renewed  zeal,  to  the 
case,  to  his  books,  and  to  Dallas  as  su- 
preme and  final  authority. 

Madam  Galbraith  sat  stiffly  erect  in 
her  purple  dress,  troubling  herself  very 
little  about  the  box.  but  greedily  drinking 
in  every  word  that  Dallas  spoke — one 
minute  swelling  with  triumph  and  pride, 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


217 


then  turning  sharply  to  watch  if  the 
others  were  Hstening — even  to  Henkel 
and  his  troop.  It  was  not  enough  that 
her  ship  had  come  home  to  her  for  ever 
in  this  boy  :  slie  wanted  the  wliole  world 
to  see  how  fair  and  good  a  ship  it  was, 
and  to  envy  her  the  freight  it  carried. 

As  for  Dallas  himself,  he  must  have 
been  a  very  log  if  the  fond,  admiring 
glances  that  followed  him  had  not  roused 
him  out  of  his  ordinary  gravity.  Be- 
sides, this  was  his  own  ground,  which  he 
had  conquered  for  himself,  of  whose 
wonderful  richness  they  knew  nothing. 
It  was  not  strange  that  he  used  forcible, 
apt  words  as  he  talked,  or  that  his  wliole 
countenance  became  transfigured  with  a 
magnetic,  whole-souled  energy  which 
they  had  never  seen  in  him  before,  and 
which  kindled  his  enthusiasm  in  them 
all.  There  were  a  hundred  adventures, 
too.  that  the  specimens  brought  to  his 
remembrance,  which,  when  told  with  all 
his  queer,  dry  humor,  brought  down 
peals  of  laughter. 

Dour  watched  him  with  unusual  re- 
spect. "  I  never  knew  the  real  man  be- 
fore to-day,"  he  said  aside  to  Mr.  Rattlin. 

Night  closed  in  suddenly,  with  a  low, 
foreboding  sough  of  the  wind  through 
the  defiles.  "  The  storm's  risin',  sir," 
Henkel  said  once  or  twice,  under  his 
breath,  as  he  came  in  to  heap  the  fire 
with  coal,  shying  carefully  back  from  a 
dried  infant  alligator  which  lay  stretched 
upon  the  hearth.  But  nobody  heeded 
the  warning.  Doors  and  windows  were 
barred  fast :  the  great  boulders  of  jetty 
coal  broke  into  miniature  volcanoes, 
spouting  jets  of  flame  that  rushed  up  the 
wide  chimney,  carrying  defiance  to  the 
night  without.  What  did  the  storm  mat- 
ter to  them  ?  This  mysterious  knowledge 
of  Dallas  and  his  former  life,  of  which 
they  had  gained  but  shadowy  glimpses, 
was  made  real  to  them  to-night,  and 
every  one  of  them  felt  that  they  had  a 
share  in  his  glory. 

Supper  was  announced  just  as  they 
unrolled  the  last  package.  "  I  wish  the 
empty  box  taken  to  my  room,  Henkel," 
said  Honora,  whispering  to  Dallas  that  it 
had  been  made  by  his  own  hands,  and  that 
she  had  an  odd  attraction  to  anything  that 


belonged  to  the  time  when  she  was  not  his 
wife.  "  I  am  jealous  of  the  story  of  every 
moment  of  those  years,"  she  said,  pas- 
sionately, at  which  Dallas  only  laughed, 
stooping  to  sweep  the  paper  and  dry 
moss  into  the  box.  Some  new  insight  into 
life,  which  in  the  last  few  weeks  had  come 
to  him,  had  done  much  to  blot  out  his 
morbid  fears.  The  danger,  delayed  so 
long,  was  almost  forgotten :  he  was  a 
citizen,  a  man  who  would  be  of  weight 
in  his  State — a  husband  :  these  things 
were  real — the  shadowy  face  that  threat- 
ened him  had  been  but  an  unhealthy 
megrim. 

Colonel  Pervis  announced  once  or 
twice  that  the  pheasants  would  be  cold. 
He  had  been  out  secretly  to  watch  that 
they  were  properly  basted.  But  Dallas 
and  Honora  must  arrange  and  label  their 
stones,  and  alligators,  and  jointed  snakes. 
Mr.  Rattlin  brought  them  coffee,  but  had 
to  take  it  back  again  untouched. 

The  others  sat  long  over  the  bril- 
liantly-lighted supper-table.  No  great 
gala-night  in  the  old  house  had  ever 
been  so  full  of  triumph  as  that  homely 
supper,  with  the  toast  given  in  a  low 
voice  by  the  Colonel :  "  To  our  boy,  who 
would  bring  higher  honor  than  wealth  to 
the  old  stock." 

Madam  Galbraith  replied  to  it  for- 
mally, standing.  She  said  that  Dallas 
was  a  Dour — that  the  field  of  physical 
science  was  one  on  which  the  Dours  had 
never  before  entered.  But  wherever 
they  went  they  won  renown.  That  this 
night,  if  she  might  be  allowed  to  relate 
a  family  tradition,  reminded  her  of  that 
on  which  old  Major  Peter  Dour  came 
home,  wearing  the  sword  which  Wash- 
ington had  given  him  on  the  battle-field 
for  a  charge  which  no  other  officer  would 
have  dared  to  make.  The  trophies  which 
her  son  Dallas  had  wrested  from  Nature, 
through  perils  as  extreme,  were  as  hon- 
orable as  that  sword  in  her  eyes.  Though 
she  was  an  old  woman,  and  must  be  for- 
given if  she  talked  feebly.  She  was  rest- 
ing heavily  on  her  knuckles.  She  stop- 
ped abruptly  here,  her  swarthy  features 
contorted,  and  sat  down  without  fin-shing. 

Meanwhile,  the  wind  moaned  unheeded 
over  the  white  plain  down  in  the  valley, 


2l8 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


where  the  power  and  wealth  of  the  Dours 
lay  buried,  and  beat  fiercely  against  the 
walls  of  the  old  house,  as  with  wild 
warning  of  worse  disaster.  At  times, 
when  the  wail  of  the  storm  drowned 
their  voices,  and  shook  the  very  founda- 
tions of  the  house,  which  were  built  upon 
the  solid  rock,  Madam  Galbraith  looked 
around  with  a  complacent,  reassuring 
smile.  She  knew  her  walls  to  be  im- 
pregnable. 

But  Honora  ("who  was  sadly  lacking 
in  the  old  woman's  kind  of  stamina)  felt 
her  heart  quake  and  her  teeth  chatter 
with  every  fresh  blast.  She  looked  out 
of  the  unshuttered  window  at  the  far  end 
of  the  hall  with  a  great  show  of  courage, 
and  drew  back  hastily.  The  Northern 
Lights  flamed  up  the  sky  with  a  red,  un- 
natural glow :  black,  spectral  shapes 
moved  through  the  driving  storm  from 
horizon  to  horizon  —  whether  mist  or 
avenging  spirits  who  could  say .''  The 
old  trees  near  at  hand  waved  their 
branches  with  shrill  moans  like  ghosts 
in  pain  ;  but  the  mountains,  beaten  by 
tlie  tempest,  drew  farther  back  with  their 
secret,  which  no  man  has  ever  known, 
and  wrapped  themselves  deeper  in  their 
eternal,  melancholy  calm. 

Honora  had  no  idea  of  secrets  in 
storm  or  mountains.  She  found  herself 
alone  in  the  wide,  dimly-lighted  hall  ;  and 
Dallas,  who  had  gone  to  his  own  room 
to  wash  the  dust  from  his  hands,  heard 
her  little  feet  pattering  quickly  after  him, 
and  laughed  to  himself 

The  chamber  was  large,  cheerful,  softly 
lighted.  "  I  was  afraid,"  she  said  simply, 
and  knelt  down  on  the  rug  to  wait  for 
him. 

When  he  came  to  her  she  got  up, 
standing  on  tip-toe  to  gravely  adjust  his 
cravat.  "You  bare  your  throat  like  a 
sailor,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  foolish  httle  chance.  But 
years  afterward,  when  the  great  change 
had  come,  and  he  knew  her  as  a  differ- 
ent woman,  the  little  brown  figure  on 
tip-toe  would  seem  to  stand  before  him 
again.  The  scared  face  and  beautiful 
eyes  close  to  his — the  cold  hands  seek- 
ing this  silly  pretext  to  steal  about  his 
neck  and  cling  there.     Years  afterward 


the  picture  remained  as  of  one  whom  he 
had  lost  on  that  night,  and  who  would 
never  return  to  him  again. 

They  found  the  whole  party  gathered 
in  the  hall  when  they  came  down.  Be- 
ing in  the  centre  of  the  house,  the  storm 
was  less  audible  here  than  in  the  outer 
rooms  :  "  Besides,"  added  the  Colonel, 
"  we  cannot  separate  Dallas  from  his 
treasures." 

It  was  a  great  gloomy  hall,  with  a 
heavy,  arched  ceiling  of  unpainted  beams, 
the  curtaining  shadows  of  which  were 
scarcely  disturbed  by  even  the  noonday 
sun.  The  walls  were  hung  with  branch- 
ing antlers,  lynx  and  bear  skins,  Indian 
quivers  and  tomahawks — an  index  to  the 
old  histories  of  the  Dours. 

They  had  all  made  up  their  minds, 
however,  that  it  should  be  cheerful :  they 
dragged  in  easy-chairs,  carried  in  lamps, 
heaped  up  mountains  of  coal  on  the  fire 
at  the  far  end  ;  yet,  after  all,  the  illumi- 
nation was  but  a  nebulous  glow,  that 
only  threw  heavier,  flickering  shadows 
into  the  dark  cavity  behind.  But  in  the 
perverse,  gay  humor  which  had  taken 
possession  of  them  all,  they  turned  their 
backs  on  the  darkness  and  storm,  and 
told  stories  and  sang  songs — Dallas  and 
Honora  together,  while  the  Colonel 
growled  out  a  bit  of  bass  now  and  then, 
and  Henkel  and  the  women  loitered  in 
the  dining-room  to  listen.  When  they 
came  to  some  old  Scotch  ballads,  the 
whole  party  joined  in  the  chorus,  Mr. 
Rattlin's  shrill  treble  piping  over  all. 
The  beat  of  the  sleet  and  hail  and  the 
wail  of  the  wind  were  so  incessant 
without  that  tliey  had  ceased  to  notice 
them,  and  looked  up  in  surprise  when 
Dallas  suddenly  grew  silent,  and,  rising, 
walked  uneasily  to  and  fro. 

"  Does  the  storm  so  disturb  you,  my 
son  ?" 

"  No  wonder  if  it  did,"  said  Colonel 
Pervis,  stooping  to  the  hearth  to  drop 
some  apples  he  had  roasted  into  a  great 
pitcher  of  toddy,  and  anxiously  watching 
them  swim  in  the  golden-brown,  steam- 
ing liquid.  "  The  moan  of  that  north- 
easter is  almost  human  to-night.  I  could 
have  sworn  a  while  ago,  if  it  had  been 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


219 


possible,  that  I  hea^d  a  voice  witliout. 
I  saw  by  your  face,  Dallas,  that  you 
heard  it." 

As  if  to  give  meaning  to  his  words,  a 
hoarse,  inarticulate  cry  broke  into  the 
muttering  of  the  storm,  for  off  and  dis- 
cordant. 

"  It  comes  from  the  northern  pass," 
said  Madam  Galbraith  :  "  the  wind  in 
that  gully  has  a  voice  like  the  Banshee, 
full  of  incomprehensible  pain.  No  living 
being  could  be  abroad  to-niglit.  Come, 
Dallas,  let  us  have  another  song." 

"  In  a  moment.  Go  on  without  me  : 
Honora  will  lead  you."  He  went 
hastily  through  the  dark  hall  to  the 
window. 

Dour  looked  after  him  sharply  :  "  Mr. 
Galbraith's  face  is  ghastly.  One  would 
tliink  that  he  beheved  in  the  Banshee, 
and  had  heard  his  own  death-note." 

"  He  is  like  all  persons  who  live  close 
to  Nature,"  Honora  rejoined  sharply : 
"  his  whole  system  is  affected  by  slight 
atmospheric  changes."  She  began  at 
once  to  sing  some  careless,  ringing  air, 
where  the  voice  turned  back  on  itself, 
as  it  were,  and  made  a  sudden  refrain  of 
a  clear,  triumphant  note,  dropped  before, 
so  contagious  that  they  all  caught  and 
echoed  it.  But  her  eyes  never  left  her 
husband. 

Dallas  glanced  back  as  he  heard  the 
joyous  catch  :  a  colder,  heavier  weight 
came  with  it  to  add  to  whatever  dread  or 
pain  it  was  that  oppressed  him.  He 
paused  a  moment,  then  pushed  aside  the 
curtain  and  looked  out. 

There  was  the  plain  of  deep  snow, 
sheeted  with  ice  ;  there  was  the  storm 
sweeping  steadily  by,  white -winged, 
moaning  for  its  prey ;  there  were  the 
black,  bare  forests,  bent  dumbly  before 
it,  and  the  gigantic  shadows  of  the  moun- 
tains bracing  each  other  in  the  far 
horizon.      There  was  nothing  more. 

He  waited  a  while,  and  then,  recover- 
ing from  his  stooping  posture,  stood  for 
a  moment  curiously  erect.  He  was 
turning  to  go  back  to  them  when  a 
shadow,  in  a  deep  pitfall  of  snow,  which 
he  had  thought  was  a  log,  moved. 

It  was  no  log  :  it  was  a  broad,  power- 
fully-built man. 


His  back  was  toward  the  house :  the 
hail  had  blinded,  and  the  faint  echo  of 
the  song  bewildered  him.  He  had 
fought  his  way  thus  far,  nigh  to  death 
as  he  was,  to  sink  down  at  the  threshold. 
There  was  no  cry  now — not  even  a 
moan  :  his  hands  stretched  feebly  out, 
and  the  paralyzed  motion  of  his  head, 
showed  that  his  strength  was  nearly 
gone.  If  it  had  been  Colonel  Pervis 
who  saw  him,  and  the  man  had  been  his 
worst  enemy,  he  would  have  rushed  out 
breathless  and  carried  him  in  tenderly  as 
a  child.  But  Dallas  Galbraith  drew  the 
curtain  close,  that  no  light  should  escape, 
and,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
leaned  his  forehead  against  the  pane 
and  watched  him  in  his  last  struggle. 
He  knew,  as  though  he  saw  them,  what 
bloated  features  were  those  under  the 
broad-brimmed  hat — what  black,  flinty 
eyes. 

The  song  within  went  on  gayly. 
Without,  the  sky  darkened  and  sank 
heavily  overhead  ;  but  a  chance  ray  from 
the  low,  watery  moon  fell  on  the  black, 
broad  figure  that  every  moment  sank 
deeper,  inch  by  inch,  in  the  snow,  and 
grew  more  still. 

Dallas  Galbraith  had  never  been  more 
cool  and  warily  self-possessed  than  now, 
when  his  life  hung  in  the  balance  of  a 
moment.  The  thoughts  even  came  to 
his  brain  moderate  and  deliberately. 
Deepest  of  all,  there  was  the  fact  that, 
end  as  this  might,  there  was  no  God — 
no  good.  Nothing  but  the  inexorable 
Something,  which  all  his  life  had  forced 
him  deeper,  step  by  step,  into  ruin,  when- 
ever he  had  been  true  to  his  best  self 
There  was  no  power  outside  of  himself 
to  whom  he  could  look  up. 

He  pushed  back  his  fair  hair,  and 
looked  in  at  the  group  in  the  circle  of 
ruddy  light  about  the  fire.  There  was 
home  for  him — warm,  loving,  healthful, 
until  death  :  there  was  a  man's  place 
among  men.  His  wife's  voice  at  that 
moment  came  to  him  in  a  pleading  little 
air,  which  she  had  sung  to  him  so  often 
that  it  had  grown  full  of  '.ender,  secret 
meanings  to  them  both.  He  watched 
her  steadily  with  his  quiet  blue  eyes, 
while  a  clammy  sweat  broke  sk  ivvly  uh 


220 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


his  body.  He  thought  he  could  hear 
Laddoun's  jeering  voice  telling  her  that 
it  was  upon  a  felon's  breast  her  head  lay- 
last  night — that  it  was  a  felon's  lips  which 
she  had  kissed  with  such  passion.  There 
were  some  old  words  of  hers  which  he 
had  never  forgotten  :  "  Though  he  were 
dear  to  me  as  my  own  soul,  if  he  were 
guilty  I  would  put  him  from  me." 

There  was  no  way  now  to  disprove  his 
guilt :  his  long  concealment  would  but 
make  it  sure. 

He  turned  from  her. 

The  man's  head  had  fallen  heavily  on 
his  breast — he  had  ceased  to  struggle. 
It  did  not  need  that  Dallas  should  even 
raise  his  hand  to  thrust  him  back,  and 
be  done  with  the  peril  and  the  old 
foul  life  for  ever.  Let  him  but  drop  the 
curtain,  and  go  quietly  back  to  the  cheer- 
ful fireside. 

The  night  and  storm  were  doing  his 
work  for  him.  The  cry  would  never  be 
heard  again.  In  the  morning  there  would 
be  but  a  stiff  clod  of  matter — harmless  : 
tliat  could  tell  no  tales. 

He  waited  in  silence.  The  wind  had 
lulled  ;  the  snow  fell  heavily,  softly  ;  he 
could  detect  but  faint  resistance  in  the 
dark  figure,  which  it  strove  to  bury,  flake 
by  flake. 

Yet  if  he  drew  yonder  bolt  and  let 
the  beacon-hght  stream  through  the 
open  door?  In  another  moment  Lad- 
doun  would  be  in  their  midst. 

He  clasped  his  hands  more  tightly  be- 
hind him,  and  stood  as  motionless  as  a 
stone ;  but  he  closed  his  eyes  :  he  had 
no  wish  to  see  him  die. 

Then  there  was  a  lightning  flash  and 
heat  through  Dallas'  veins — a  throb  of 
the  sturdy,  honest,  gallant  heart,  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  He  put  his  hand 
out,  drew  the  bolt,  and  let  the  flood  of 
red  light  flash  out  into  the  night  ;  and 
then,  after  he  had  seen  the  man  look  up, 
and  with  a  desperate  struggle  gain  his 
footing,  he  went  quietly  back  to  the  fire, 
and  stood  among  the  others,  for  one  brief 
moment  more,  their  equal  and  com- 
panion. 

Let  the  old  hard  Luck  that  had  followed 
him  always,  that  now  struggled  into  life 
at  his  door,  enter  and  do  its  worst. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Before  they  could  speak  to  him,  the 
fierce  blaze  of  the  fire,  quickened  by  the 
cold  entering  air,  flashed  up  into  a  sud- 
den and  more  powerful  brilliance,  illu- 
minating the  great  hall,  and  chasing  be- 
fore it  the  sombre  shadows  that  had 
lurked  in  corners  unseen  and  unfelt.  It 
threw  into  strong  relief  the  figure  of  a 
man,  framed  in  the  massive  portal  of  the 
door. 

So  wan  and  gaunt  he  was ;  so  strangely 
unreal,  ghostly  and  pallid  ;  so  worn  with 
disease,  battered  of  Fate  and  abused  by 
the  storm  through  which  he  had  dragged 
himself,  that  the  questions  with  which 
they  had  greeted  Dallas  died  suddenly 
into  silence  ;  and,  as  if  each  one  there 
confronted  visible  Death  in  his  most 
spectral  shape,  they  rose  in  confusion, 
and  stood  regarding  the  ghasdy  figure  of 
the  guest  who  came  to  trouble  their  en- 
joyment. 

The  fire  shot  up  into  a  triumphant 
gleam — then  fell  apart  in  drifts  of  saffron 
smoke,  and  the  shadows  filled  again  the 
heavy  arches  overhead,  pictured  them- 
selves upon  the  walls,  and  made  still 
more  unreal  the  hving  shadow  which 
the  doorway  framed.  He  came  forward, 
dripping  and  staggering  as  he  came,  un- 
til he  stood  among  them,  leaning  with 
one  hand  on  the  table,  while  the  other, 
upon  whose  thin  forefinger  burned  a 
gaudy  purple  stone,  toyed  feebly  vnth 
the  glossy  black  beard  that  grew  on  his 
lean,  colorless  face,  luxuriant  as  lichen 
upon  dead  wood.  Madam  Galbraith  has- 
tened toward  him  ;  but  before  she  could 
speak  he  had  turned  to  Dallas,  upon 
whose  arm  Honora  had  laid  her  hand, 
with  no  look  of  fear  now,  but  of  a  quiet 
protection  for  him  against  an  evil  of 
which  she  already  knew  the  depth  and 
danger. 

There  was  an  effort,  piteous  to  see, 
for  the  old  grace  and  swagger  in  Lad- 
doun's sweeping  bow.  But  his  smile 
had  lost  the  mellowness  of  youth  now, 
and  was  a  hard,  stage-grin,  and  the 
rotund  voice  was  but  a  hoarse  quaver : 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  Dallas  ?" 

"  I  know  you,  Laddoun." 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


« I  am  not  welcome  ?" 

"  No,  you  are  not  welcome." 

They  faced  each  other  in  silence. 
Then  Laddoun  turned  his  back  to  them 
all,  with  a  peculiar  choking  in  his  throat 
which  chilled  their  blood  as  they  heard 
it :  "I  saved  your  life  there,  in  Scran- 
ton,"  he  said.  "And  it's  almost  up  with 
me  now.  But  no  matter  !  I  regret — I 
did  not  mean  to  have  intruded,  madam." 
His  jaws  fell  weakly  open  and  his  eyes 
were  glazed  ;  but  the  ringed  hand  waved 
with  the  old  suave  flourish. 

Madam  Galbraith,  her  countenance 
red  with  anger,  put  her  hands  on  his 
elbows  and  gently  seated  him  in  her 
own  chair.  "  My  son  was  not  bred  in 
my  house,"  she  said,  her  stem  eye  on 
Dallas,  "  or  he  would  know  that  its  doors 
were  never  closed  upon  a  man  ill  and 
needy,  were  he  my  worst  enemy." 

Laddoun  tried  to  reply,  but  the  words 
failed  him.  He  pointed  dramatically  to 
his  deathlike  face,  made  a  feeble  effort 
to  tear  open  his  thin,  soaked  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  then  sank  down  in  a 
helpless,  soggy  mass  at  their  feet. 

When  Dallas  stooped  to  lift  him,  Ho- 
nora  stood  before  him,  her  eyes  flashing 
and  her  features  pinched.  "You  shall 
not,"  she  said :  "  I  know  who  he  is. 
If  /  could  bring  him  to  life  with  one 
touch  of  my  finger,  I  would  not  do  it, 
Dallas." 

He  put  her  gently  aside,  and,  with  the 
other  men,  laid  the  bulky,  inanimate 
body  on  a  lounge.  "  It's  that  poor 
braggart,  Laddoun,"  muttered  Pervis,  as 
he  poured  out  a  goblet  of  the  hot  liquor. 
"  He  was  on  your  trail  before,  Dallas. 
What's  the  grudge  between  you,  eh  ? 
If  I  could  get  a  mouthful  of  this  down 
his  throat,  it  would  bring  life  to  him 
again." 

"  He  has  been  lodging  at  the  toll-gate 
with  old  Dick  Potter,"  said  Mr.  Rattlin, 
tugging  at  his  boots.  "  He  came  there 
late  one  night,  weeks  ago.  and  has  been 
too  ill  to  be  removed.  He  must  have 
been  mad  to  dare  the  storm  to-night." 

"  He  is  not  mad,"  said  Dallas,  quietly. 
"  His  errand  is  to  me,  and  he  thought 
he  was  near  the  end.  But  he  will  not 
die  until  it  is  accomplished." 


The  other  men  worked  in  silence  after 
that,  with  furtive,  grave  glances  at  the 
young  man's  patient,  stern  face.  Some- 
thing in  it,  more  terrible  tlian  death, 
awed  them,  and  made  them  wish  that  the 
morning  had  come. 

The  man  was  so  emaciated  ?nd  so  ex- 
hausted by  his  long  fight  with  the  storm 
that  they  thought  it  best  not  to  remove 
him  to  another  room.  Madam  Galbraith 
herself  made  a  bed  upon  the  lounge, 
while  Dallas,  helped  by  the  others,  strip- 
ped off  his  wet  garments  and  wrapped 
him  in  blankets.  Honora  alone  was 
idle.  She  was,  hke  all  women,  tender 
enough  by  instinct.  But  when  their 
prejudices  are  roused,  they  are,  unlike 
men,  pitiless  as  death.  She  watched 
the  poor  wTetch  struggling  for  breath, 
and  Dallas'  resolute  efforts  to  help  him, 
as  though  she  had  been  a  bar  of  steel. 

Then  she  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  there,  where  she  could  not  look  at 
him. 

He  did  not  revive  as  they  had  hoped. 
The  long,  dark  hours  crept  by :  the 
storm  without  had  grown  silent ;  there 
was  a  vague  consciousness  upon  them 
all  that  it  had  done  its  worst  when  it 
drove  this  poor,  human  wreck  to  their 
door,  to  work  out  what  evil  yet  lay  in 
him  before  the  end.  But  as  the  night 
deepened,  and  he  yet  lay  unconscious, 
the  firelight  flickering  upon  the  livid  face 
and  glossy  beard,  they  began  to  move 
with  more  hushed  footsteps,  to  watch  un- 
easily from  time  to  time  for  the  first  gray 
hint  of  dawn.  The  awe  of  that  inevit- 
able Shadow  which  waited  to  claim  them 
all  had  fallen  upon  them :  conscious  that 
it  stood  now  in  their  midst,  and  that  its 
victim  did  not  know  that  the  call  for  him 
had  come. 

It  seemed  best  to  them  that  his  last 
hours  should  be  quiet :  they  sat  around 
the  fire,  therefore,  gravely  silent  or 
speaking  only  in  whispers.  But  Dallas 
worked  with  him  unwearied — at  first  to 
drive  out  by  force  the  remembrance  of 
the  murder  that  had  been  in  his  heart. 
But  when  he  felt  the  hands  and  feet 
grow  cold  under  his  hold,  and  saw  the 
gray,  unmistakable  shadow  steal  over  the 
face,  the  memor}'  of  these  later  years  was 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


blotted  out.  He  was  the  boy  Dallas 
again.  For  how  many  years  this  man 
had  been  his  open-handed  friend,  his 
hearty  companion  ! 

"  George  !"  he  called  once,  when  he 
thought  the  eyes  moved.  "  George  !" 
But  the  silence  of  the  grave  mocked 
him,  and  after  that  he  did  not  speak 
again. 

When  the  sickly  light  of  the  first  dawn 
glimmered  through  the  window  and 
struck  the  roof,  however,  Laddoun's 
torpor  was  broken :  he  stirred  and 
opened  his  small,  black  eyes,  and  after 
staring  dully  around,  they  rested  on 
Dallas. 

"  My  errand  was  to  you,"  he  said. 

Madam  Galbraith  moistened  his 
parched  lips,  and  they  hfted  him  up  to 
a  sitting  posture,  and  then  drew  back 
and  left  Dallas  alone  before  him.  Lad- 
doun  began  to  speak,  but  pausing,  mo- 
tioned to  a  bottle  of  brandy  on  the  table. 
Dallas  poured  out  a  glassful  for  him. 

"  Hah  !"  wiping  his  lips,  "  that  has 
body  to  it.  I'm  not  as  strong  as  I 
should  like  to  be,  madam,"  to  Mrs.  Duf- 
field,  slowly,  as  though  the  words  were 
drawn  from  a  well  that  was  nearly  dry. 
"  I  need  bracing.  If  I  had  seen  you,  I 
should  have  certainly  drunk  my — my  old 
toast — Lovely  woman.  George  Laddoun 
has  been  a  gallant  man  in  his  day — 
devoted  to  the  ladies." 

Mrs.  Duffield  bowed  and  drew  far- 
ther back,  very  pale. 

The  black,  shining  eye,  missing  her, 
wandered  restlessly,  and  fixed  itself  on 
Mr.  Galbraith. 

The  well  was  nearly  dry  now,  but  the 
old  ceaseless  rattle  and  jingle  went  on. 
"It  is  the  walk,  sir,  that  made  me  re- 
quire a  stimulant.  The  fatigue  was  se- 
vere. But  I  am  rewarded  by  the  honor 
of  your  acquaintance.  It  is  an  honor — 
long-deferred.  My  business  was  with 
your  son — " 

« We  will  leave  you,  Dallas,"  Mr. 
Galbraith  said  to  him  aside,  hastily. 
«'  We  can  do  nothing  for  him,  and  it  is 
more  fitting  that  you  should  hear  the 
last  words  of  this  man  alone." 

Laddoun's  jealous  eye  was  on  them, 
reading    Mr.  Galbraith's  words   by  the 


motion  of  his  lips  :  he  raised  his  hana 
authoritatively. 

Dallas  detained  them  by  a  sign : 
"Let  no  one  go  out.  The  secret  has 
been  kept  too  long,"  he  said.  "  If  the 
end  is  to  come,  let  it  be  now."  He 
gave  one  quick  look  around  for  Honora, 
but  she  stood  still  motionless  by  the 
window,  her  back  toward  them.  He 
took  a  glass  of  water  and  drank  it 
slowly,  and  then,  leaning  with  one  arm 
upon  the  mantel-shelf,  looked  down  at 
Laddoun. 

The  slow,  patient  years  of  endurance 
and  toil  were  over,  and  the  sum  of  it  all 
was  placed  in  the  hands  of  this  half- 
drunken,  dying  wretch,  to  make  or  mar 
for  ever,  at  his  pleasure. 

God's  justice  ! 

Laddoun,  with  the  blanket  gathered 
about  his  throat,  nodded  critically  as  he 
inspected  Dallas.  "A  pale,  dramatic 
face,  and  lights  up  well  with  passion  !" 
he  would  have  said,  but  his  breath  was 
gone.  He  was  considering  the  scene 
with  regard  to  its  stage  effect.  He  had 
often  planned  it,  but  not  so  well  as 
chance  had  done.  He  looked  up  at  the 
wan  glimmer  of  dawn  on  the  high,  dusky 
arches,  at  the  woman's  figure  by  the 
window,  at  the  silent  group  in  the  glow 
of  firelight,  at  Dallas;  then  with  a  smile 
of  content  stroked  his  jetty  beard,  and 
glanced  down  at  it.  Then  he  sipped 
the  brandy  slowly,  and  so  gathered,  as 
it  were,  and  nursed  his  strength. 

"  Will  I  fill  your  glass  ?"  asked  Colo- 
nel Pervis. 

He  looked  into  the  goblet  doubtfully : 
there  were  but  a  few  drops  left.  "  No 
more,  sir.  Do  you  know  I  believe  that 
will  be  the  last  drink  for  George  Lad- 
doun ?  And  he's  been  a  jolly  dog !" 
with  a  sorrowful  quaver.  "  No — no  more. 
Dallas !" 

"  I  am  here,  Laddoun." 

"  Dallas  !"  he  said,  struggling  to  sit 
erect  and  to  form  his  words  after  some 
coherent  plan  long  in  his  mind.  "  There 
are  some  men  who  go  out  of  this  world 
with  their  accounts  unsquared.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  life  should  end  like  a 
play.  When  this  cursed  fever  got  the 
better  of  me  in  Panama,  I  determined 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


223 


that  it  shouldn't  cut  off  George  Lad- 
doun's  life  as  commonplace  and  mean- 
ingless as  a  dog's.  I've  been  trying  all 
my  life  to  write  a  play,  but  the  managers 
wouldn't  take  it.  This  is  a  better  play 
than  any  I  could  write  ;  it  brings  us  all 
in — all  of  us.  Why  are  your  faces  all 
so  cursed  white?  Do  you  think  that  old 
Death  has  come  to  drop  the  curtain 
now  ?  Death  and  justice  at  the  end ! 
Yes!  it's  like  a  play.     Like  a  play!" 

They  saw  that  the  man's  mind  had 
wandered  away  into  incoherency,  and 
that  he  had  lost  the  thread  upon  which 
he  began. 

Dallas  stooped  and  touched  his  fore- 
head :   "  Do  you  know  me,  George  ?" 

"Yes,  Dall,  I  know  you.  Will  you 
give  me  the  brandy  again  ?" 

"  It  is  in  your  hand." 

A  weak  smile  trembled  on  his  lips  as 
he  slowly  sipped  it,  measuring  tlie  amount 
with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head. 
"  It's  the  last — the  wine  of  life  for  me,  sir !" 
to  Colonel  Pervis  ;  "  and  it  runs  low," 
looking  at  it  in  silence,  as  if  he  told  off 
by  the  remaining  drops  the  minutes  of 
his  life.  It  seemed  as  if  by  this  tawdry, 
dramatic  symbol  alone  the  narrow  space 
of  sight  and  sound  which  barred  the 
man  from  the  eternal  Silence  beyond  was 
made  real  to  him.  He  turned  to  Dal- 
las at  last,  still  holding  the  goblet  in  his 
hand. 

"  For  you,  Galbraith,"  with  a  sudden, 
loud  energy.  "  I  came  here  from  Panama 
to  fulfill  my  purpose  for  you.  McGill 
told  there  that  I  had  grown  insane  in 
brooding  over  it.  Curse  him  !  Who's 
Joe  McGill,  to  judge  a  gentleman  ?  I 
mean  before  I  die  to  take  the  mask  off 
that  you've  worn — to  show  you  as  you  are 
to  your  friends  and  your  wife.  It's  pro- 
per work  for  George  Laddoun.  The 
Dours  are  a  genteel,  high  family." 

"  The  man  speaks  with  great  good 
sense,  though  his  meaning  is  obscure," 
said  Madam  Galbraith,  aside. 

Mr.  Rattlin  suddenly  came  before 
them  all,  and  put  his  hands  on  Lad- 
doun's  shoulders.  His  natural  solemn 
voice  jarred  strangely  against  the  inces- 
sant cracked  hectoring  of  the  other. 
"  My  friend,  in  God's  name  be  silent  ! 


Dallas  Galbraith  is  known  to  us  all. 
Nothing  you  can  say  will  harm  him  here. 
But,  for  yourself.  Colonel  Laddoun,  the 
time  is  short." 

He  blenched  for  a  moment :  "  Well, 
my  little  man,  I  know  that,"  rallying 
with  a  good-natured,  miserable  laugh. 
"  I'll  be  found  game  when  the  time 
comes.  Don't  chouse  me  out  of  my 
plan.  I've  known  this  man  as  you 
never  knew  him.  He  would  have  turned 
me  out  to-night  to  die  like  a  beast.  Yet 
I  took  him  out  of  the  coal-pits.  I 
clothed  and  fed  him  !  For  years  he  had 
no  friend  but  me,"  with  a  sort  of  hyste- 
rical sob. 

"Is  this  true,  Dallas  ?"  Madam  Gal- 
braith touched  him  on  the  breast  as  she 
spoke. 

"  It  is  true." 

The  sudden  flash  of  strength  gone, 
Laddoun  had  sunk  back  in  a  heap  as 
though  he  were  disjointed,  covering  his 
face  with  one  hand.  Dallas  went  up  to 
him  and  took  it  down,  holding  it  in  his 
own  :  "  George,  the  play's  almost  over, 
as  you  said.  Is  it  worth  while  to  ask 
you  to  be  just  ?  In  an  hour  it  will  be 
too  late.  I've  borne  this  weight  many 
years  without  complaining  ;  but — "  he 
grew  so  hoarse  as  to  be  almost  inaud- 
ible— "  the  truth  will  matter  something 
to  me  now." 

"  You've  no  proof  of  your  innocence," 
a  flash  of  cunning  in  the  black  eyes. 

"  No.  I  have  no  proof"  He  looked 
slowly  around  upon  their  faces,  resting 
on  his  wife  at  last.  "  I  don't  try  to 
move  you,  Laddoun,  but  you  are  taking 
something  from  me  to-night  which  will 
never  come  to  me  again."  Some  hidden 
meaning  in  the  quiet,  moderate  words 
made  their  hearts  stand  still,  as  though 
they  heard  the  cry  of  a  soul  for  its  life  to 
God. 

Laddoun  looked  up,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  two  men  met.  The  sickly  morning 
light  glimmered  down  the  walls,  touched 
the  strange  birds  and  beetles  into  bril- 
liant hues,  and  dimmed  the  red  flame  of 
the  fire,  but  the  silence  was  unbroken. 

Then  Laddoun  wiped  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  his  eyes  wandei 
ing   guiltily.     "What  would  you   have 


224 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


me  do  ?"  querulously.  "  Damn  mj-self  ? 
Here — now  ?  I  will  leave  the  world  an 
honorable  man.      As  I've  lived." 

Dallas  went  back  to  his  own  place 
without  a  word.  "It  was  the  last 
chance,"  he  muttered  after  a  while,  and 
stood  alone,  apart  from  them  all,  looking 
at  no  one. 

Laddoun  lifted  the  brandy  and  trem- 
blingly wet  his  lips.  "  I  have  more  to 
tell,"  he  said,  loudly. 

But  Dallas'  hand  was  already  pressed 
to  a  warm,  steady  little  breast,  and  a  wo- 
man's voice  filled  the  silence,  rational  and 
quiet :  "  Why  should  you  say  more,  Col- 
onel Laddoun?  Did  you  drag  yourself 
here,  a  dying  man,  only  to  tell  us  that  Dal- 
las Galbraith  was  ignorant,  poor — was  for 
years  a  convict  in  Albany  ?  Is  that  all?  Is 
that  the  whole  of  your  poor  revenge  ?" 

"  Honora  ?"  Dallas  dragged  his  wife 
round  until  she  faced  him.  It  was  no 
longer  the  silly,  petulant,  lovable  girl 
whom  he  saw.  She  was  gone,  and 
never  after  this  night  returned.  It  was 
a  woman,  beautiful,  with  noble  patience, 
that  met  his  gaze,  her  great  brown  eyes 
brilliant  as  with  new  life.  She  caught 
his  coat  with  both  hands,  and  spoke  to 
him.     Alone.     Laddoun  was  forgotten. 

"  I  know  it,  Dallas.  I  have  known  it 
a  long  time.  I  have  so  loved  and 
trusted  you  that  I  never  asked  you 
whether  you  were  innocent  or  guilty. 
What  did  that  matter  to  me  ?  I  know 
you  as  you  are  now,  my  husband  !" 

She  would  have  kissed  him,  but  he 
did  not  move  to  kiss  her :  he  stood 
breathing  heavily  and  staring  blindly 
down  into  her  face,  parting  the  hair  on 
her  forehead  mechanically.  Looking  into 
his  eyes,  she  had  a  glimpse,  for  the  first 
time,  into  the  soul  of  this  log  of  a  man 
whom  she  had  married.  She  knew 
something  then  of  the  pain  he  had 
borne  there,  the  awful  tenderness  and 
patience  which  lay  hidden  there,  never 
to  see  the  light.  She  saw  there,  too, 
the  strength  she  had  brought  to  him. 
It  was  well  she  had  that  comfort,  for  he 
spoke  no  word  of  it  to  her. 

He  looked  up  at  last.  "  He  is  dying, 
Honora,"  he  said,  and  putting  her  aside, 
went  toward  him. 


He  was  dying.  He  lay  back  on  the 
blankets,  the  hand  fallen  by  his  side 
which  held  the  goblet,  the  brandy  drop- 
ping slowly  on  the  floor.  Mr.  Galbraith 
was  gone,  but  the  other  men  were  busy 
about  him.  Dallas  felt  rather  than  saw 
the  constraint  and  cold  civility  with 
which,  as  by  one  impulse,  they  moved 
aside  to  let  him  pass. 

Madam  Galbraith  was  on  her  knees 
before  Laddoun,  with  no  gentle  purpose 
of  ministering  to  him,  but  intent  on 
dragging  by  force  the  secret  from  his 
miserable  soul  ere  it  took  its  flight. 
Her  gray  hair  ai  i  proud  face,  that 
spoke  in  that  moment,  as  never  before, 
the  clean  blood  of  generations,  were 
brought  close  to  his  foul  breath  as  he 
whispered  huskily. 

"  I  cannot  hear  you,"  her  black  eyes 
flashing  savagely.  "  Give  the  man  a 
stimulant.  Is  that  the  tale  you  came  to 
tell,  that  my  son  was  a  felon  ?" 

Laddoun  nodded,  and  tried  to  pull  the 
blankets  over  his  shivering  feet. 

"  I  must  have  the  whole  truth," 
making  no  effort  to  assist  him. 

He  began  to  speak,  and,  making  but 
an  inarticulate  sound,  pointed  apologeti- 
cally to  his  throat,  trying  to  smile  cour- 
teously. With  the  Shadow  that  waited 
behind  him,  its  blindness  and  chill  upon 
his  eyes  and  lips,  Laddoun  could  not 
forget  that  this  was  a  great  lady — a  wo- 
man who  led  society — who  spoke  to  him. 

Madam  Galbraith  rose  and  looked 
down  on  him,  fierce  and  hungry  as  a 
balked  bird  of  prey.  Mr.  Rattlin  would 
have  put  her  aside  :  "  He  is  near  death, 
madam.     Let  me  pray  with  him." 

"  What  Popish  folly  is  that  ?  Do  you 
think  a  life  like  his  is  to  be  glossed  over 
by  a  twinge  of  fear  at  the  end  ?  What  is 
the  soul  of  a  wretch  like  that  compared  to 
the  honor  of  my  family,  that  is  at  stake  ?" 

Mrs.  Duffield  stood  before  her.  '•  My 
son  Dallas,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  metal- 
lic tone,  "will  tell  you  that  this  story, 
which  Honora  has  accepted  so  readily, 
i.s  folse — false.  You  will  not  refuse  to 
credit  him  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  credit  him  ?"  in  a 
voice  which,  from  its  low  key  and  con- 
centration   of    bitterness,    was    audible 


DALLAS    GAI^BRAITH. 


225 


through  the  whole  apartment.  "The 
time  has  passed  for  Dallas  Galbraith  to 
speak.  He  has  stolen  his  place  and  his 
wife.      It  is  too  late  !" 

Dallas,  who  heeded  her  words  no  more 
than  a  stone  the  wind  that  blew  against 
it,  had  lifted  Laddoun  into  an  easier 
posture,  and,  in  obedience  to  his  signs, 
was  loosening  the  gaudy,  red  cravat  and 
wetting  his  lips,  ceasing  when  he  found 
that  he  shut  his  eyes  drowsil}^,  as  though 
for  a  quiet  slumber. 

But  Madam  Galbraith  stooped  nearer 
to  the  closing  eyes,  pale  as  though  Death 
had  touched  her  als'  ■.  "  The  truth  be- 
fore you  go  !"  she  cned. 

The  soul  seemed  to  come  back  to  the 
graying,  rigid  features,  and  linger  in 
obedience  to  the  imperious  summons  : 
« I — I  came  back  from  Panama  to  tell 
you.  But  I  lost  the  cue  to-night  some- 
how. It  was  better  than  any  play  I 
wrote.  But  I  never  could  finish  my  last 
act  successfully.  Take  this  lump  off  my 
breast,  Dallas.     It's  cold." 

The  Shadow  was  so  near,  its  inex- 
orable hand  so  open  and  visible  now 
upon  its  prisoner,  that  even  the  fierce 
old  woman  drew  back  awed  and  dumb. 

Laddoun's  eyes  rested  by  chance  on 
Dallas,  and  brightened  into  a  look 
strangely  foreign  to  them — both  genuine 
and  cordial.  The  bo3-'s  nature,  asleep 
so  long,  wakens  again,  according  to  the 
old  superstition,  and  looks  through  the 
most  hackneyed,  vilest  face  at  the  last, 
when  Death  comes  to  bare  all  secrets. 

"  I've  been  a  good  friend  to  you,  Dall. 
I'll— I'll  drink  with  you."  He  lifted  the 
glass  which,  according  to  his  fancy,  held 
the  last  wine  of  his  life,  with  an  effort  to 
his  mouth,  but  the  last  drop  had  dripped, 
untasted,  on  the  floor.  He  looked  at  it. 
"  Spilled,  eh  ?  And  now — for  my  secret !" 
But  the  weight  was  too  heavy  on  his 
breast,  that  never  should  be  lifted  :  the 
last  act  would  never  be  finished :  he 
turned  his  head  to  one  side.  "  No  mat- 
ter !  You  know — down  there  at  Mana- 
squan,  Laddoun  was — was  a  jolly  dog." 

The  morning  light  shone  in  blankly. 
They  waited  a  moment,  but  the  soiled 
linen  and  ruby  buttons  on  his  breast  did 
not    stir.     Mr.   Rattlin    bent   over   him 


and  took  the  glass  from  his  hand  ;  and, 
if,  as  he  closed  the  black  eyes,  still  with 
the  pleasant  smile  in  them,  he  followed 
the  soul  of  the  jolly  dog  with  a  prayer 
upon  its  for-ever  silent  journe}-,  who  can 
blame  him  ? 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

The  softest  morning  hght  is  melan- 
choly when  it  falls  into  a  room  disor- 
dered with  last  night's  work  or  pleasure. 
But  it  was  a  cold,  unflinching  day  that 
suddenly  bared  the  great  hall  at  whose 
end  the  little  group  were  huddled.  They 
had  suffered  the  fire  to  go  out,  and  the 
hearth  was  strewn  with  blackened  cinders 
and  soot :  plants  and  ores,  the  poor 
trophies  of  Dallas'  life,  were  scattered 
underfoot — their  previous  proud  signifi- 
cance gone  from  them  for  ever :  tlie 
dead  man  lay  in  their  midst,  stiff,  on 
his  untidy  blankets. 

They  left  him  neglected  for  the  time, 
watching  the  living  figure  which  had  for 
them  a  sadder  significance — the  gaunt, 
gray  old  woman,  who  stood  on  the  ashes 
of  the  hearth  upon  which  for  the  first 
time  had  fallen  dishonor.  Even  Dallas, 
forgetting  himself,  looked  at  her  with 
pity.  But  Honora,  though  sick  to  death 
at  heart,  began  to  pick  up  the  scattered 
plants  with  proud  composure,  as  if  she 
could  show  by  that  means  that  her  hus- 
band was  the  same  to  her.  She  chose 
to  ignore  altogether  the  dead  man  and 
the  blow  he  had  struck. 

Mr.  Galbraith  came  in,  nervously 
turning  his  head  from  the  body  on  the 
lounge,  going  up  to  his  wife,  who  stood 
beside  it.  She  did  not  move  v.hen  he 
spoke  to  her.  She  held  her  hand-  on 
her  whitening,  bearded  upper  lip,  and 
drew  heavy  sighs,  as  a  man  does  who 
struggles  to  control  some  cleaving  pain 
within.  There  was  an  ominous  silence, 
which  no  one  dared  to  break.  At  last 
Mr.  Galbraith's  mild  voice  was  heard  : 

"  I  was  a  coward  to  desert  you.  my 
dear  boy.  But  I  knew  what  this  man 
came  to  tell.  I  have  known  it  a  long 
time.     I  could  not  see  you  degraded  on 


226 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


my  own  hearth.  I  do  not  know  how 
much  was  told  to-night.  But  I  am  sure, 
Dallas,"  trying  to  speak  cheerfully,  "  that 
you  can  make  it  all  plain  to  us  now  ?" 

Madam  Galbraith  did  not  raise  her 
eyes,  but  she  waited  motionless,  holding 
her  breath.  Honora  stood  quietly  lis- 
tening.     But  Dallas  was  silent. 

"  You  believed  in  his  innocence  ?"  said 
Mr.  Rattlin,  anxiously.  "  You  had, 
doubtless,  proof  of  it,  sir  ?" 

"  No  !  I  have  but  his  word.  That 
is  enough  for  me." 

"  It  is  not  enough  for  me,"  said  Ma- 
dam Galbraith,  in  a  hoarse  thunder. 
"  Poverty  and  death  find  lodging  under 
this  roof — I  cannot  keep  them  out.  But 
Q'ime — never  !" 

Colonel  Pervis  stepped  forward  to 
Dallas  with  a  forced  heartiness  and  cor- 
diality, more  galling  than  open  suspi- 
cion :  "  It  will  all  come  right,"  clapping 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Many  a  man  is 
sent  unjustly  to  those  Eastern  prisons 
by  the  cursed  blockheads  of  jurymen. 
Dallas  has  proof  that  he  was  unjustly 
sentenced,  no  doubt." 

But  Dallas  stood,  bigger,  more  im- 
movable, more  dumb  than  ever.  The 
light  fell  directly  upon  him,  and  the 
wind  from  the  open  window  blew  the 
fair  hair  back  from  his  broad  forehead, 
his  blue  eyes  turned  gravely  from  one 
speaker  to  the  other.  But  with  the  first 
sound  of  Madam  Galbraith's  bitter  voice, 
her  own  fierce  obstinacy  rose  to  meet 
her  in  his  cooler  blood.  His  lips  were 
.sealed. 

His  mother  came  up  and  shook  his 
arm  violently:  "  Speak  to  them,  Dallas  !" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  dry  lips, 
and  held  her  with  one  arm  close  to  his 
breast.  When  he  looked  up  he  found 
they  all  stood  waiting.  Even  Madam 
Galbraith  had  come  forward  a  step,  her 
eyes  upon  him. 

He  turned  from  them  to  his  own  moth- 
er's. "  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  he  replied, 
in  a  clear,  quiet  voice.  "  The  only  proof 
of  my  innocence  was  with  the  man  who 
lies  dead  there.  I  shall  find  no  fault  with 
him  now.  He  is  dead.  I  have  no  proof. 
I  ask  no  man  to  trust  my  word." 

The  stern  old  woman  was  for  a  mo- 


ment stunned  and  breathless.  If  he  had 
succumbed  to  her,  if  he  had  but  once 
acknowledged  her  as  either  judge  or 
mother,  the  heart  of  her  within  might 
have  spoken  through  the  flinty  pride. 
But  she  looked  into  his  cold  eyes  and 
obdurate  face,  her  own  growing  each  in- 
stant more  wan  and  hard.  At  last  she 
raised  her  hands  and  motioned  him 
back :  "  Let  him  go,  James.  He  has 
deceived  me  once.  I  do  not  trust  his 
word.  When  he  can  prove  his  inno- 
cence he  will  find  home  ready  for  him." 

Then  she  sat  down  by  Laddoun  and 
covered  her  head  with  her  hands,  more 
cowed,  more  defeated  in  her  life  than 
he  in  his  death. 

The  next  moment  Dallas  stood  with- 
out the  door,  a  little  brown  figure  close 
beside  him.  Mr,  Galbraith  had  fol- 
lowed him  :  he  was  the  paler  of  the  two. 
He  chafed  his  thin,  long  hands  unceas- 
ingly together :  "  You  shall  not  leave 
my  roof,  dear  boy !  This  is  your 
home  !"  repeating  the  words  again  and 
again,  until  they  lost  all  force. 

But  Dallas  answered  loudly,  his  eyes 
unnaturally  bright :  "  No,  it  is  not  my 
home  !  What !  are  you  here  still  Ho- 
nora ?  Go  back !  You  are  no  wife  of  mine. 
It  was  not  a  felon  that  you  married  !" 

"  We  are  going  together,  Dallas," 
quietly. 

"  I  have  no  home  for  you.  I  am 
branded  like  Cain.  I  know  what  my 
ruin  is,  now  that  I  have  brought  it  on 
you  !" 

"  We  will  make  a  home.  Come,  let 
us  make  ready  and  be  gone." 

Mr.  Galbraith  stood  apart,  looking 
dully  at  her,  leaning  against  the  stone 
wall  of  the  house,  unconscious  of  the 
fierce  wind  that  blew  his  gray  hair  back. 
"  Honora  !"  he  said,  feebly,  "  my  child, 
will  you  leave  me  V 

"When  Dallas  can  prove  his  inno- 
cence we  will  both  come  back,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "  That  will  be  in  a  little  while  ! 
Only  a  little  while,  uncle  !"  smiling,  as 
she  gulped  down  her  tears. 

But  her  hopeful  voice  n^used  no  echo 
in  either  of  the  men,  who  had  fought 
against  Circumstance  longer  than  she. 

"  You  are  very  right  to  go  with  your 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


227 


husband,  my  dear,"  faltered  the  old  man. 
"  I  do  not  blame  you.  You'll  both  be 
happier  away.  I  would  not  have  urged 
}ou  to  stay,  Dallas,"  holding  out  his 
hand,  "  but  you  and  Nora  are  all  I  have. 
Madam  Galbraith"s  prejudices  are  power- 
ful, and  your — your  character  is  forcible, 
my  son.  I  am  not  a  strong  man.  I 
have  not  the  power  to  reconcile  you  that 
I  could  wish."  Honora  stood  watching 
him  as  he  turned  away.  In  the  last 
hour  he  had  become,  she  thought,  an 
old,  broken  man.  She  put  up  her  hands 
to  her  eyes  to  shut  him  out  from  her 
sight.  Then  she  slowdy  followed  her 
husband. 

It  was  Honora  who  gathered  Dallas' 
clothes  and  books  together,  talking  cheer- 
fully while  he  sat  silent,  watching  her. 
She  planned  where  they  should  go  for 
the  little  while  before  his  innocence 
would  be  proved.  Every  little  keep- 
sake which  her  uncle  had  given  her  she 
collected  carefully.  But  her  clothes, 
which  had  always  been  chosen  by  Ma- 
dam Galbraith,  she  left  behind. 

"  You  shall  buy  me  what  I  want,"  she 
said.  Poor,  purblind  Dallas  had  no  idea 
of  the  fiery,  implacable  little  heart  beat- 
ing steadily  in  her  bosom,  which  de- 
spaired that  Fate,  or  God,  or  anything 
but  herself  would  ever  understand  the 
man  she  loved  or  do  him  justice.  She 
turned,  quite  cool  and  self-possessed 
and  gracious,  to  Mr.  Dour  when  he 
came  in  to  bid  Dallas  good-bye.  Dour's 
memory  was  quickened,  and  he  recol- 
lected Dallas'  trial  now,  though  he  did 
not  advert  to  it.  He  fully  believed  him 
guilty.  But,  in  his  just,  philosophic 
way,  he  rather  liked  to  count  the  step- 
ping-stones of  their  dead  selves  on 
which  men  had  risen,  particularly  if  they 
were  foul  and  unusual  stones.  He 
talked  to  Dallas  with  precisely  his  old 
manner  and  an  added  tinge  of  curiosity, 
which  only  drove  the  blood  colder  to 
Dallas'  heart,  and  induced  Honora  to 
follow  him  privately  to  the  hall  as  he 
left  them,  and  to  tell  him  that  they  had 
all  the  evidence  of  her  husband's  inno- 
cence, and  were  going  now  to  make  it 
public. 

Colonel    Pervis    did   not  come    near 


tlicm.  He  thought  the  boy  guilty,  and 
knew  he  could  not  hide  it.  He  shut 
himself  up  in  the  dining-room  alone,  and 
paced  up  and  down  in  dead  silence,  with- 
out even  an  oath  to  relieve  him.  He 
poured  out  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  put  it 
down  untasted,  sick  at  heart  and  stom- 
ach. The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Duf- 
field  came  in,  going  straight  up  to  him 
with  a  strangely  set  step  and  manner, 
which  made  him  stop  and  stare  at  her, 
a  curious  alarm  on  his  florid  face. 

She  was  dressed  in  her  cloak  and 
hood. 

"  You  are  going  out,  madam  ?  The 
weather  is  inclement." 

"  I  am  going  with  my  son  Dallas,"  in 
her  ordinary  calm  tones.  "  I  will  take 
passage  to  California  by  the  next 
steamer." 

"  California  .'"' 

She  nodded  with  perfect  composure, 
her  eye  as  clear  and  keen  as  ever.  But 
the  Colonel  noted  certain  blue  marks 
about  the  firm  mouth,  as  if  a  cold  hand 
had  touched  her.  "  I  am  a  practical 
woman,  as  you  know.  These  dying  ac- 
cusations and  tragical  emotions  may  per- 
tain naturally  to  the  lives  of  Madam  Gal- 
braith and  my  son.  They  are  Dours. 
But  I  am  an  ordinary,  business  person. 
I  reduce  the  matter  to  reason.  My  son 
is  innocent— w^e  know  that  !" 

"Innocent?  Assuredly.  Madam,  pray 
take  a  chair."  The  blue  marks  were 
widening  and  deepening.  The  cold  hand 
was  gaining  ground.  One  could  fancy 
it  was  stretched  out  from  her  heart 
within,  and  that  there  there  was  no 
warmth. 

"  No,  I  will  not  sit  down,  thank  you. 
If  Dallas  is  innocent,  there  must  be 
proof  of  it.  I  think  I  said  that  in  a  case 
like  this  one  must  act  from  reason,  not 
feeling.  He  said  Laddoun  had  such 
proof  I  shall  follow — "  She  put  up  her 
hand  uncertainly  to  her  eyes,  hesitated 
and  stopped.  After  a  while  she  looked 
up.  Colonel  Pervis  came  a  step  nearer. 
The  cold  hand  had  left  its  mark  heavily, 
indeed. 

"  I  have  lost  the  thread  of  what  I  was 
going  to  say." 

"  You  said  you  would  follow — " 


228 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


"  Follow  Laddoun.  I  will  trace  him 
back  and  find  the  proof.  I  am  Dallas' 
mother.      I'll  not  tire." 

Her  head  fell  forward.  The  Colonel 
caught  her  as  she  sank  down,  her  flesh 
very  cold,  and  the  heart  quite  still 
within. 

He  rang  the  bell :  "  Take  Mrs.  Duf- 
field  to  bed,"  when  the  women  came. 
'"  She'll  not  be  apt  to  leave  it  for  some 
time,"  he  muttered  to  himself  "  '  My 
son  is  innocent,'  eh  1  God  help  the 
women  !  How  they  do  hang  on  to  the 
last !"  and  he  resumed  his  miserable 
lounge  through  the  room. 

Honora  and  her  husband  were  left 
a  long  time  alone.  When  they  were 
almost  ready  to  go,  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  Mr.  Rattlin  came  in.  His 
insignificant  little  face  was  like  a  cordial 
to  starving  men.  It  broke  down  that 
iron-faced  Httle  Honora,  who,  after  the 
first  glance  at  it,  began  to  cry  quietly 
over  the  valise  she  was  packing. 

"  Well,  children,  I  have  the  sleigh. 
Are  you  ready  1  We  will  just  reach  the 
farm  in  time  for  lunch,  and  then  we  can 
talk  over  our  plans." 

"  We  are  not  going  home  with  you, 
dear  Mr.  Rattlin.  We  will  not  bring  our 
disgrace  \.o  yojif  sobbing  out  loud  now. 

But  Dallas  had  risen  and  held  out  his 
hand :  "  You  think  me  innocent,  then, 
sir  ?" 

"  I  know  it,  Galbraith  !  Our  religion 
is  not  that  of  our  Master  if  it  does  not 
teach  us  to  have  faith  in  each  other  as 
well  as  in  God.  I  know  you  are  in- 
nocent." 

"  Does  your  religion  teach  you  that 
justice  always  comes  in  this  world  ?" 

He  hesitated,  and  shook  his  head : 
"  We  will  not  talk  of  that.  Your  mother 
is  ill.  It  is  best  for  you  not  to  see  her. 
Ycm  will  come  home  with  me  ?" 

"No." 

"  Have  you  any  plan  ?  I  will  not 
urge  you.  Do  what  will  give  yourselves 
most  comfort." 

When  they  did  not  answer  him,  he 
walked  away  to  the  window  to  give  them 
time.  "  I  will  go  to  my  work,"  Dallas 
said  at  last.     "  Something  can  be  done, 


even  before  spring.  Unless  I  lose  the 
appointment  when  this  discovery  is  made 
known." 

"  I  have  a  letter  here  which  I  ne- 
glected to  give  you  last  night."  He  laid 
it  on  the  table  and  went  out  hurriedly, 
fearful  that  even  his  kindness  would  be 
jarring  and  intrusive. 

"  Honora,"  said  Dallas,  as  she  foldfed 
her  little  keepsakes ;  "  how  did  you 
know — that — " 

She  blushed  crimson,  and  did  not  re- 
ply for  a  moment :  "  I  remembered — 
the  convict  that  Lizzy  brought  here." 

Dallas  was  silent.  Then  he  took  her 
head  between  his  hands  and  turned  it 
toward  him  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor. 
"If  you  had  known  it  before  we  were 
married,  Honora?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  with  both 
a  laugh  and  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I 
remembered  the  convict  that  Lizzy 
brought — long  ago." 

"  And  you  married  me  ?" 

"  I  loved  you,  dear,"  burying  her  head 
in  his  breast. 

It  was  only  when  they  rose  to  go  out 
that  Dallas  remembered  the  letter.  It 
was  square  and  large,  with  the  postmark 
Manasqtian  scrawled  in  one  corner.  He 
opened  it,  and  found  on  the  thick  sheet 
of  paper  within  only  these  words,  in  a 
formal  hand : 

"  To  Dallas  Galbraith  : 

"  Sir  :  EHzabeth  B3Tne  desires  that 
you  will  come  to  her  without  delay.  Of 
her  claim  on  you,  you  are  the  best  judge. 
Her  need  of  you  is  a  matter  of  Hfe  and 
death.  Joseph  Kimball." 

"  Who  is  Joseph  Kimball,  Dallas  ?" 
touching  him  when  he  stood  silent. 

"  A  good  old  man,  Honora.  A  friend 
of  mine  before  I  lost  friends." 

"  Lizzy  is  ill  or  in  great  trouble.  We 
will  go  to  her." 

"  Yes."  But  he  stood  folding  the 
letter  slowly,  a  deeper  shadow  on  his 
face.  The  world  outside  to  Dallas  was 
blatant  with  his  shame.  He  was  going 
out  to  meet  it.  But  it  gave  him  a 
keener  pang  than  any  he  had  borne  to 
think  of  carrying  back  his  old  weight  of 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


229 


disgrace  to  the  simple  people  to  whom 
his  perverse  affection  yet  clung.  He 
roused  himself  in  a  moment.  "  We  will 
go  to  Manasquan,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
what  Lizzy's  claims  upon  me  are." 

Honora  saw  that  the  halls  and  cham- 
bers were  curiously  vacant  when  they 
passed  out.  The  very  servants  avoided 
them.  Her  uncle  stood  at  the  doorway 
to  bid  them  good-bye.  He  held  Dallas' 
hand  and  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words 
died  on  his  tongue.  Mr.  Rattlin  ran 
alongside  of  the  sleigh  as  it  dragged 
heavily  along,  talking  fast  and  cheerfully, 
until  he  sank  hip-deep  in  snow.  Then 
he  stood  watching  them,  waving  his  hat, 
his  little  face  red  and  his  eyes  wet. 

So  they  went  out,  quite  alone,  into  the 
waste  of  snow. 

The  gray  -  headed  old  gentleman 
watched  the  black  spot  creeping  out 
of  sight  across  the  white  plain.  If  he 
had  been  a  less  unable,  unready  man, 
he  thought  vainly,  he  might  have  com- 
manded their  fate  to  a  difierent  ending. 

Mr.  Ratthn,  who  had  joined  him, 
sighed  when  they  were  no  longer  to  be 
seen. 

"Justice  will  come  at  last,"  he  said. 

"  It  may  be.  Yet  Justice  is  slow.  I 
fear  that  I  shall  never  see  my  son  again." 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

Solitude  :  every  hour  deeper  soli- 
tude and  silence.  It  seemed  to  Honora 
that  the  mountains  of  the  West  and  her 
old  home-life  belonged  to  another  and 
distant  world.  She  could  not  tell  how 
long  she  had  been  sitting,  packed  in 
buffalo  skins,  in  this  rough,  queer  sled, 
ghding  noiselessly  over  the  snow,  with 
Dallas,  silent,  at  her  side,  and  the  silent 
driver  in  front.  The  lonehness  and  un- 
broken monotony  began  to  weigh  upon 
her  brain.  This  might  be  the  entrance 
into  Hades.  Were  they  to  go  down  for 
ever  into  these  dead  plains  of  snow, 
with  the  dead  plains  of  sand  beneath — 
into  these  unbroken,  spectral  forests  of 
stunted  and  distorted  trees,  that  even  in 


daylight  stretched  out  their  black  arms 
like  the  skeletons  of  mocking  dwarfs, 
but  in  the  cold  moonlight  grew  almost 
human  in  their  deformity  and  despairing 
motion  ?  The  very  sky  overhead  was 
new  to  her — of  thin,  wet  texture,  kin- 
dling at  sunset  into  shifting  hues  of  such 
strange  brilliancy  th&t  she  fancied  they 
curtained  from  her  some  untried  world, 
into  which  she  was  about  to  enter. 

Honora  had  traveled  but  little  :  she 
had  borne  lately  great  but  repressed 
suffering  ;  she  grew  superstitious,  watch- 
ful of  trifles.  Her  watch  had  stopped  : 
when  she  wished  to  know  the  time  the 
driver  turned  his  back  to  the  watery  sun 
and  measured  his  shadow  on  the  snow. 
Every  hour  she  saw  they  left  the  world 
of  society  and  inventions  farther  behind, 
going  down  into  this  place  where  Nature- 
lay  with  bared  and  awful  face.  She 
knew  by  instinct  that  some  stupendous 
reality  was  hidden  yonder.  Its  shadow 
fell  everywhere.  The  driver,  the  few 
charcoal-burners  whose  lonely  huts  they 
passed,  were  stolid  and  ignorant,  but 
men  strangely  grave  and  sincere. 

She  began  to  perceive  a  wonderful 
freshness  and  hghtness  in  the  air.  The 
earth  beneath  her  throbbed  with  a  slow, 
dreadful  pulse,  and  then  she  heard  an  in- 
articulate wail,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
chilled  or  dissatisfied  her  life  before. 

At  last  they  crept  down  to  the  beach, 
and  she  saw  the  sea.  Then  she  under- 
stood that  the  loneliness  and  monotony 
which  had  oppressed  her  was  but  the 
spell  cast  upon  the  land  by  this  soHtary 
creature,  whose  cry  of  pain  began  with 
the  song  which  the  morning  stars  sang 
together. 

All  day  they  skirted  the  coast :  she 
said  nothing  to  Dallas,  but  she  could  not 
remove  her  eyes  from  the  inexplicable, 
sombre,  perpetual  motion,  which  seemed 
to  her  counter  and  alien  to  the  order  of 
the  world.  If  she  had  ever  secretly 
called  God  unjust,  this  thing  made  the 
thought  audible  for  her.  It  was  the  out- 
cry of  the  world's  misery  against  the 
Hand  that  ruled  it.  There  was  in  it 
something  which  the  doctrine  of  fatalism 
that  she  had  found  in  her  Thirty-nine 
Articles  could  not  answer. 


230 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


Ddtlas,  after  the  sun  had  passed  noon, 
noticed  how  haggard  and  careworn  she 
was,  watching  the  sea  ;  but  he  had  no 
•way  to  comfort  her.  He  knew  it  was 
his  ill-fortune  that  had  brought  ruin  on 
her.  He  got  out  of  the  sled,  and  went 
before  it,  through  the  marshes  and  up 
into  the  towering  pine  forests.  They 
were  near  Manasquan  now. 

He  walked  slowly,  not  to  lose  sight  of 
Honora's  face,  looking  out  from  the  furs. 
It  was  beginning  to  have  that  galled 
yet  obdurate  look  which  he  found  on  his 
own.  It  was  very  bitter  to  Dallas  to  see 
it.  For  himself,  he  had  bent  his  broad 
back  to  the  yoke  long  ago.  The  Power 
that  drove  him  down,  down  continually, 
was  stronger  than  he,  but  he  was  too 
strong  to  fret  and  jibe  against  it.  Yet 
there  was  a  malignant  humor  in  this  im- 
placable Fate,  which  had  set  before  him 
always  the  choice,  and  when  he  clung  to 
the  right  had  paid  him  with  heavier 
strokes.  Even  this  simple  duty  of 
coming  to  Lizzy  was  to  bring  on  himself 
the  bitterest  pain  of  all. 

For  he  knew  now  what  this  fishing 
village  and  its  people  were  to  him.  There 
was  not  a  headland,  nor  tree,  nor  osprey's 
nest  which  he  did  not  remember.  There 
were  only  a  few  miles  yet  to  walk  before 
they  reached  the  village.  In  that  time 
his  bitterness  wore  away  under  the  re- 
cognition of  the  old  sights  and  sounds. 
There  was  no  change  in  them  to  break 
the  old  boyish  glamour  with  which  he  saw 
them.  He  came  alongside  of  the  sled 
now  and  then  to  speak  a  {q.^^  words  and 
then  hurry  on  ;  and  Honora  saw  a  curi- 
ous change  in  him  :  his  step  was  elastic ; 
he  laughed  at  times  nervously  ;  he  had 
forgotten,  for  the  first  time  since  she 
knew  him,  his  grave  control.  She  knew 
that  great,  live  pain  and  the  remembrance 
of  singular  happiness  lay  beneath  his 
simple,  abrupt  talk. 

'•  I  have  found  my  name  on  four 
trees,"  with  a  laugh.  "  I  was  fond  of 
seeing  it  then  in  big,  bold  letters.  There 
are  places  were  it  has  been  scraped 
away — where  it  was  cut  with  othersy 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  but  did  not 
speak. 

Again,  after  a  longer  absence,  he  came 


back  and  walked  beside  her,  silent  for  a 
long  time,  though  she  looked  at  him  once 
or  twice  inquiringly. 

"  You  can  see  the  smoke  of  one  or 
two  of  the  village  houses  from  here,  off 
by  the  headland  yonder.  It  is  not  a  vil- 
lage, only  scattered  farm-houses  and  fish- 
ermen's huts." 

She  was  not  to  be  put  aside  by  his  as- 
sumed carelessness.  Something  in  the 
woods  yonder,  she  knew,  had  wrung  the 
heart  terribly  of  the  simple,  dogged 
fellow. 

"What  did  you  see,  Dallas?"  she  said, 
under  her  breath. 

He  glanced  down  at  her  quickly:  "A 
little  hut  I  used  to  live  in.  I  went  to 
find  it.      I  built  it  myself." 

"  Some  one  else  has  occupied  it  ?" 

"  No.  It  is  vacant.  No  one  else 
would  care  to  live  in  it.  They  are  a 
superstitious  people  here."  He  stopped, 
but  Honora  was  waiting. 

"  What  was  it,  Dallas  ?" 

"It  is  better  that  you  should  know  it. 
I  found  the  walls  scrawled  over  with  my 
name,  and  a  word  added.  Always  the 
same  word.  The  boys  of  the  village  had 
done  it.  I  know  now  of  what  crime  I 
am  held  guilty  here."  She  took  his 
hand  in  both  her  own,  holding  it  a  long 
time  before  he  spoke  again.  "  The  man 
in  whose  name  Laddoun's  cheque  was 
drawn  was  old  and  hved  alone.  He  was 
found  robbed  and  dead  soon  after.  Be- 
fore Laddoun  and  I  had  left  the  city." 

"  And  these  people  beheve  you  guilty? 
They  wrote  murderer  after  your  name  on 
the  walls  ?  They  will  call  it  after  you 
when  you  go  among  them  ?"  She  looked 
slowly  over  the  distant  houses  as  she 
spoke.  If  the  look  of  the  quiet,  little 
gentlewoman  could  have  swept  Mana- 
squan and  its  people  into  death,  she 
would  not  have  spared  it. 

"  Perhaps  they  will  do  it.  It  would 
be  but  natural,"  in  his  moderate,  just 
tone.  "  My  story  has  passed  into  the 
legends  of  the  village,  and  the  boys 
have  exaggerated  it.  It  was  they  who 
wrote  my  name  there.  The  boys  !" 
He  turned  his  head  away  with  the  word. 
She  understood.  It  was  here,  in  Mana- 
squan, that  he  himself  had  been  young. 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


231 


All  the  healthy,  happy  associations  of  his 
life  were  with  the  boys  here.  They 
wrote  him  murderer  on  their  walls  :  the 
little  children  were  frightened  to  sleep 
with  his  name. 

She  held  her  shut  hand  tight  across 
her  breast :   "Shall  we  go  on,  Dallas  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  right  to  go.  Even  this 
will  have  an  end." 

She  ventured  after  a  while  to  touch  the 
flap  of  his  overcoat  as  he  walked  beside 
her,  holding  her  hand  up  toward  the 
rigid,  pale  face,  shadowed  by  the  plant- 
er's hat.  "  I  am  here,  Dallas.  You  are 
not  alone." 

"  I  know,"  quickly,  smiling  down  at 
her.  But  the  smile  was  soon  gone  and 
she  forgotten.  The  wife  could  not  atone 
for  the  man's  place  and  good  name,  lost 
for  ever.  He  remained  silent  after  that, 
keeping  beside  her,  his  hand  on  the 
edge  of  the  sled.  They  passed  some 
of  his  old  haunts,  but  he  did  not  even 
turn  his  head  toward  them. 

It  was  a  veiled,  gray  afternoon,  a 
west  wind  edging  the  great  violet  flood 
of  the  sea  with  yellow  foam.  Dallas, 
with  every  step,  felt  the  familiar  scene 
press  closer  upon  his  pained  senses. 
There  was  an  unwonted  silence :  the 
very  surf  beat  softly  on  the  sand  ;  the 
fishermen's  boats,  pulled  above  high-tide 
mark,  were  unridden  by  the  usual  red- 
shirted  loungers  ;  doors  and  windows 
were  closed  in  the  farm-houses  that  they 
passed.  There  was  old  Doctor  Noanes' 
red  cottage  back  in  the  pines — still  the 
great  place  of  the  village  ;  and  there  were 
Jim  Van  Zeldt's  roomy  porches  about 
his  lead-colored  house,  the  pillars  shaped 
like  anchors.  But  they  were  all  deserted 
and  empty.  When  they  reached  Nixon's 
low,  little  tavern  by  the  roadside,  Dallas 
looked  quickly  to  see  the  old  group, 
Graah  and  Becker,  and  the  rest,  sitting 
nursing  their  knees  and  smoking  as 
usual  ;  but  even  the  little  bar  within 
was  vacant — the  fire  covered,  and  the 
cat  asleep  before  it. 

They  were  avoiding  him  purposely  : 
they  meant  to  let  him  come  and  go 
without  seeing  a  single  old  familiar  face. 
He  thought  that  he  had  steeled  himself 
thoroughly,  but   this    wrenched  him  to 


the  heart.  He  turned  to  the  driver 
j  (who  w-as  a  stranger  to  him,  not  a 
Alanasquan  man) :  "  Did  they  know  I 
was  coming  here  to-day  ?  IMy  name  is 
Galbraith." 

The  fellow  nodded  with  a  furtive 
glance,  and  turned  his  tobacco  in  his 
mouth  ;  "  Dallas  Galbraith  ?  They 
know  you  be  coming.  They  got  your 
I  letter.  I  was  to  meet  you." 
!  Dallas  drew  back.  "  There  is  the 
house  to  which  I  am  going,"  he  said. 
"  You  can  see  Elizabeth's  place  through 
the  trees,"  to  Honora,  with  an  effort  at 
his  usual  composed  tone.  She  should 
not  see  how  little  of  a  man  he  was — that 
his  old  friends  had  yet  power  to  wring 
his  heart  so  sorely.  But  the  driver, 
with  sudden  energy,  drove  past  the  open- 
ing to  the  Byrne  place,  and  drew  up  his 
sled  in  front  of  a  low  pine  house  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  woods. 

'•  It  was  here  I  was  bid  to  stop.  You 
be  expected,  as  I  told  you." 

It  was  the  house  in  Avhich  they  had 
confined  and  tried  him — he  saw  that  at 
a  glance  :  saw,  too,  that  the  room  inside 
was  filled,  as  then,  with  the  villagers. 
There  was  a  crowd  of  brawny  fishermen 
upon  the  steps,  who,  the  moment  the 
sled  stopped,  closed  around  him.  He 
knew  them  all — the  young  Graahs,  the 
old  man  himself,  Calcroft  the  clam-dig- 
ger, all  the  others  of  the  seining  gang 
— at  their  head,  Cradock  the  sheriff. 
Their  red  faces  all  wore  a  certain  air  of 
excitement  and  expectation,  but  they  did 
not  recognize  him  by  a  word  or  look. 
They  began  to  lift  the  buffalo-robes  from 
about  Honora  civilly  enough. 

"  Be  keerful  of  the  lady,  William," 
muttered  old  Graah. 

Dallas  looked  keenly  into  the  crowded 
little  hall.  There  was  not  a  silent,  anx- 
ious face  there  which  he  did  not  know. 
Behind  his  wooden  desk  sat  Squire 
Boles,  as  he  had  done  on  that  old  night 
long  ago  when  Dallas  had  lost  the 
chance  among  men  which  had  never 
come  to  him  again.  Back  of  the  old 
Squire  stood  Father  Kimball,  and  on 
the  other  side  the  detective  Bunsen. 

A  nameless,  undefined  fear  came  to 
Dallas  at  the  sight  of  this   man.     He 


233 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


turned  quickly  :  "  Stay  here,  Honora.  I 
will  go  in  and  know  why  I  have  been 
summoned  here.  These  men,"  looking 
steadily  into  old  Graah's  face,  "  are  not 
my  friends,  but  they  will  care  for  my  wife 
kindly." 

Graah's  heavy  face  began  to  work  for 
a  word,  but  before  it  came  Honora  had 
sHpped  down  beside  her  husband:  "I 
will  go  with  you,  Dallas." 

They  went  up  the  wooden  steps  to- 
gether, the  men  following  close  and 
silently.  At  the  door  Dallas  stopped 
and  turned  to  Honora,  with  a  sudden 
perception  of  the  truth.  Bunsen  had 
contrived  to  fasten  the  murder  upon 
him,  and  had  entrapped  him  here  by 
means  of  these  old  fishermen.  Even  in 
that  moment  his  first  thought  was  for  his 
wife.  Before  he  could  speak,  Cradock 
stooped  and  whispered  to  her,  and  with 
a  wild,  terrified  look  at  Dallas,  she  drew 
back  from  him  into  the  crowd,  and  left 
him  standing  alone. 

The  instant  her  touch  left  his  arm 
the  man's  combative  instinct  started  up 
and  fully  armed  him.  He  was  no  longer 
the  boy  to  yield  without  a  struggle.  He 
went  forward  quietly  to  the  very  place 
by  the  window  where  he  had  stood  be- 
fore to  be  judged. 

The  old  Squire  stood  up,  his  rusty 
wig  pushed  from  his  forehead,  fumbling 
at  the  leaves  of  a  yellow  register.  The 
crowd  closed  behind  Dallas.  There  was 
a  breathless  silence. 

"  Dallas,  Dallas  Galbraith  !"  in  the 
shrill  voice  of  a  crier  in  court. 

"  I  am  here." 

"  We  have  waited  for  you."  He  wiped 
his  wrinkled  lips  as  if  they  were  dry,  and 
began  in  a  strained,  formal  tone  :  "  It  is 
six  years  since  you  were  heard  before 
me  on  a  criminal  charge,  and,  being 
found  guilty,  were  committed  to  the 
charge  of  this  officer.  Six  years  !  I 
think  it  is  six" — beginning  to  turn  over 
the  leaves  with  trembling  fingers. 

The  long  pause  of  waiting  was  too  much 
for  Dallas'  fortitude  ;  he  bent  forward,  his 
head  on  his  breast,  his  hands  clutched  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  him  ;  he  turned  to 
look  for  Honora,  but  red  blotches  swam 
In  the  air  before  him.     The  crowd  about 


him  pressed  closer  ;  they  brooked  delay 
with  less  patience  than  he  ;  there  was  a 
rising,  indignant  murmur — i.  woman's 
voice  outside,  in  a  smotheicd  cry. 

The  old  man's  hands  trembled  still 
more — the  book  fell  from  them.  "  I — I 
cannot  do  this,"  he  cried.  "  Father 
Kimball,  it  is  your  place  to  tell  Dallas 
Galbraith  why  we  have  brought  him 
among  us  again."  The  old  preacher, 
whose  shrewd  gray  eye  had  never  wan- 
dered from  Dallas'  face,  left  his  post  has- 
tily, and  came  toward  him,  Bunsen  keep- 
ing step  close  behind  him.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  Galbraith's  shoulder  : 

"  My  friends  and  neighbors,"  he  said, 
in  a  low,  husky  voice,  "you  all  know 
why  we  have  come  here  to-day?  It  is 
to  say  to  this  boy,  who  once  went  in  and 
out  of  our  homes,  and  was  very  dear  to 
us  all,  that  we  have  proof  now  that  he 
was  innocent  of  the  great  crime  laid  to 
his  charge  ;  that  we  have  done  him  a 
great  and  grievous  wrong  ;  that  there  is 
not  one  of  us  now  who,  when  his  own 
boy  comes  to  manhood,  would  not  be 
glad  to  find  him  as  stern  in  his  integrity 
and  as  loyal  to  his  fellow-men  as  Dallas 
Galbraith."  He  choked  and  broke  down 
here — wrung  Dallas'  hand.  "  Thank  God 
I  see  you  at  home  again,  dear  boy  !"  he 
muttered,  and  drew  back  to  give  way  to 
the  crowd  who  pressed  behind. 

But  when  they  saw  Dallas'  face,  they 
stood  still,  awed  and  silent.  They  had 
not  guessed  before  how  deep  the  hurt 
had  been  to  the  gruff,  reserved  boy,  nor 
what  these  few  words  had  brought  to 
him.  His  wife  came  up  before  them  all, 
and  laid  her  head  on  his  breast,  and 
Lizzy  caught  his  hand  and  sobbed  over 
it.      But  Honora  did  not  sob  or  cry. 

"  They  have  been  talking  to  me  of  you, 
Dallas."  she  whispered,  watching  him 
anxiously.  "There  never  were  friends 
such  as  these  of  yours  at  Manasquan." 

The  simple  words  made  it  real  to  him. 
He  looked  about  at  them  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  then  the  past  miserable  years 
seemed  to  fall  from  him  at  once  like  a 
worn-out  garment.  It  was  the  old,  sim- 
ple face  of  the  boy  Dallas  that  looked 
up  at  Squire  Boles,  and  his  hearty  voice 
that  rung  out  like  old  times  : 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


233 


"  Do  you  mean  that  my  innocence  is 
proved?  Stand  back,  Jim  Van  Zeldt — 
you  too,  Tim  Graali.  I  know  you  both. 
But  I'll  take  no  man's  hand  until  I 
know  I  am  proved  to  be  honest."  But 
he  kept  his  hand  on  little  Jim  Van 
Zeldt's  shoulder,  and  there  was  not  one 
of  them  all  that  his  blue  eyes  did  not 
take  note  of  and  welcome  as  he  waited 
for  Boles'  slow  reply — the  same  eyes 
which  the  children  used  to  love,  spai^k- 
ling  and  cordial. 

"We  have  better  testimony  for  your 
acquittal  tlian  we  had  of  your  guilt,"  he 
began,  with  a  formal  cough. 

But  Doctor  Noanes  pressed  forward  : 
"  Let  Bunsen  speak,  Boles,  and  set  this 
matter  right.  He  has  the  gift  of  the 
lawyers'  lingo,  and  all  we  know  is,  that 
we  are  cursedly  ashamed  of  ourselves, 
and  want  to  welcome  this  old  fellow  to 
his  place  among  us  again." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Galbraith," 
Bunsen  began,  quite  fluently,  being 
primed  and  ready.  "  A  convict  is  not 
to  be  proved  innocent,  as  he  has  been 
found  guilty,  by  a  show  of  circumstantial 
evidence.  But  in  your  case  there  is  the 
fullest  proof,  I  am  glad  to  say.  I  have 
here  " — taking  out  a  large  letter,  the  en- 
velope of  which  bore  a  great  blot  of  wax, 
sealed  with  a  crest — "  I  have  here  the 
declaration  of  George  Laddoun,  made 
and  sworn  to  in  Panama,  during  his  ill- 
ness there  some  months  ago,  in  the 
fear,  I  imagine,  of  immediate  death. 
You  can  read  it  at  your  leisure.  It  is 
full  and  complete,  even  to  the  story  of 
the  letter  you  destroyed  for  Lizzy's  sake, 
which  contained  the  proof  against  him. 
He  remarks,"  with  a  twitch  in  his  fat, 
unexpressive  face,  "that  he  had  always 
tried  to  instill  into  you  true  chivalric  and 
gentlemanly  ideas,  and  that  your  conduct 
about  that  letter  showed  that  his  efforts 
had  not  failed  in  effect."  Bunsen  handed 
the  letter  to  Dallas,  who  folded  it  and 
held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  You'll  not  read  it  now,  eh  ?  Some 
people  have  that  feeling  about  them  as 
is  lately  dead.  You'll  find  it  character- 
istic. There's  a  lot  of  fine  writing  and 
swagger  in  it  ;  but  as  for  remorse,  not  a 
bit  of  it.     He  had  made  a  lucky  stroke 


this  year  in  a  silver  mine,  with  a  man 
named  McGill.  He  says  he  leaves  his 
whole  property  to  you.  He  meant,  also, 
to  make  his  way  North  if  he  was  strong 
enough,  and  let  the  closing  act  of  his 
life — the  grand  finale — be  one  of  repara- 
tion to  you.  '  Dall,'  he  says,  '  is  among 
well-bred  people.  They  will  appreciate 
a  heroism  of  which  few  men  beside 
George  Laddoun  would  be  capable.' 
But,"  with  a  graver  tone,  "the  fellow 
was  sincere  at  bottom  ;  for,  lest  he 
should  never  live  to  reach  you,  he 
directed  this  paper  to  be  forwarded, 
when  he  left  Panama,  to  Mr.  Kimball. 
That  is  the  story.  Except,"  with  a 
bow,  "  that  our  friends  here  sent  for  me, 
anxious  to  wipe  away  every  stain  upon 
your  name,  and  that,  if  you  will  entrust 
me  with  the  declaration,  I  will  lay  it  be- 
fore the  Governor  of  New  York,  and 
see  that  you  are  cleared  from  all  dis- 
honor and  restored  to  your  privileges  as 
a  citizen."  Bunsen,  having  finished  his 
speech,  held  out  his  hand  to  Dallas. 

But  what  was  he  to  do  with  all  their 
hands  ?  This  outbreak  of  excitement 
had  been  pent  up  for  weeks,  and  when 
the  barrier  of  reserve  was  once  broken 
down  between  these  silent,  grave  people 
and  the  silent,  grave  lad  who  had  secretly 
been  their  hero  so  long,  who  was  going 
to  control  the  fever  ? 

Not  Squire  Boles,  who,  after  trying  to 
overlook  the  crowd  with  a  judicially 
pleased  demeanor,  scrambled  down  from 
his  high  stool  and  made  one  in  the  tide 
that  ebbed  and  swelled  about  Dallas, 
getting  near  enough  now  and  then  to 
exchange  a  hearty  word  with  "the 
lad,"  and  then  finding  himself  drifted  out 
to  the  outskirts  again,  seizing  on  Nixon 
or  Cradock,  adjusting  his  wig  and  as- 
suring them  that  he  never  had  known  so 
memorable  a  day  in  Manasquan,  and 
that  the  circumstances  deserved  to  be 
chronicled  in  some  permanent  manner 
for  the  benefit  of  our  children. 

Not  the  New  York  detective,  for, 
after  he  had  smiled  patronizingly  on 
them  once  or  twice,  he  strolled  down  to 
the  deserted  tavern  and  helped  himself 
freely  to  apple-jack.  They  all  breathed 
freer  when  he  was  gone. 


234 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


After  all,  Dallas  was  more  akin  by  na- 
ture to  these  fishermen  than  to  anybody 
else  in  the  world,  and  through  all  the 
tumult  of  jokes  and  tears  and  questions 
with  which  they  welcomed  him  back, 
there  was  silently  among  them  a  deep 
and  tender  recognition  of  this.  He  and 
his  wife  quite  belonged  to  themselves,  in 
spite  of  Honora's  delicate  bearing  and 
the  renown  which  Dallas  had  won  in  the 
world  ;  of  which  renown  Lizzy  had  given 
them  a  picture,  not  lacking  in  high  colors 
we  may  be  very  sure.  They  were  proud 
of  the  one  and  of  the  other  as  things  be- 
longing to  Manasquan,  as  much  as  Jim 
Van  Zeldt's  new  schooner  or  the  railroad 
which  would  soon  be  built,  but  which 
never  will  be. 

There  was  no  time  for  idleness.  They 
had  been  waiting  for  weeks,  ever  since 
the  letter  came,  for  this  great  day,  and 
now  that  it  was  here,  not  a  man,  woman 
or  child  of  them  all  but  was  determined 
to  express  all  the  enjoyment  out  of  it 
which  they  had  planned.  Every  one  of 
them  must  separately  shake  hands  with 
Dallas,  and  make  a  prepared  speech, 
which  generally  ended  in  a  choke  and 
clearing  of  the  throat,  and  separately  ob- 
tain some  item  about  New  Mexico  and 
its  wonders  to  talk  over  hereafter  ;  and 
give  him  a  sketch  of  their  own  family 
history  since  he  went  away,  ending  with, 
"  But  come  over,  lad,  and  bring  your 
good  lady,  and  see  for  yourself  There 
is  not  a  house  on  the  Point  that  isn't 
ready  for  a  home  for  you  both."  Then, 
although  they  had  all  already  been  talk- 
ing to  Honora,  every  one  must  be  sol- 
emnly presented  to  her  in  due  form  by 
Dallas  himself 

She  had  won  great  respect  from  the  first 
by  her  firm,  reticent  face  and  steady  self- 
control.  Father  Kimball  had  been  seen 
to  nod  approvingly  after  watching  her  ; 
and  old  Graah  took  Dallas  aside  to  tell  him 
confidentially  that  his  "  little  woman  was 
one  of  them  that  would  do  to  anchor  to  ; 
and  far  from  ill-lookin' — very  far." 

But  when  old  Rachel  Noanes  and  one 
or  two  of  the  Quaker  women  and  fishers' 
wives  took  Nora  to  one  corner  and  be- 
gan telling  her  of  all  that  Dallas  had 
been  in  the  village  after  he   first   came 


among  them,  a  poor  boy,  bringing  up 
Joe  Noanes  as  one  of  the  children  he 
had  saved  from  death  in  the  year  of  the 
great  sickness,  their  homely  affection 
and  praise  was  too  much  for  Honora. 
She  tried  to  speak,  but  only  sobl:ied 
aloud,  holding  their  hard  hands  tight, 
saying,  when  she  could  articulate,  that 
"  no  one  knew  what  Dallas  was  !  And 
his  life  had  been  so  hard — so  hard  !" 
The  women  silently  petted  her,  and  the 
men  turned  away  affecting  not  to  see  ; 
but  the  little  womanly  outbreak  won  all 
their  hearts. 

When  she  came  among  them  again, 
smiling,  they  treated  her  with  a  tender, 
grave  deference,  glancing  askance  at  her 
flushed,  tear-marked  face,  telling  each 
other  that  "  Dallas'  good  lady  was  a  first- 
class  beauty.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
of  that,  with  them  as  were  judges  !" 

When  it  grew  near  sunset  there  was  a 
little  stir  among  them.  Doctor  Noanes, 
as  one  might  say,  was  called  to  the  chair ; 
that  is  to  say,  after  straightening  his 
brown  coat,  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
stove  and  with  a  preparatory  hem,  raised 
his  voice  and  told  Dallas  that  there 
had  been  considerable  argument  among 
them  as  to  where  he  should  make  his 
home  among  them,  "  Each  one  of  your 
old  friends  countin'  his  claim  better 
than  the  others'.  Graah,  here,  held  on 
to  his  rights  like  the  bull-dog  he  is,  and 
I  was  toler'bly  stiff-necked  myself  But 
it  was  arranged  at  last  that  you  should 
go  home  with  Lizzy  here  to-night.  She 
wants  to  have  you  to  herself  a  bit.  We 
thought  that  was  only  fair.  But  to-mor- 
row all  friends  will  meet  at  my  house  for 
a  bite  of  dinner.  Eh  .?  And  after  that 
we'll  hand  you  both  around  as  we  choose. 
You  have  to  submit." 

There  was  a  sort  of  admiring  murmur 
at  this  light  way  of  mentioning  the  grand 
banquet  which  Mrs.  Noanes  had  been 
engaged  in  preparing  for  days,  and  then 
the  little  assemblage  broke  up  and  went 
out  into  the  pleasant  winter  evening,  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  streaming  redly 
through  the  pines.  When  they  were  out 
in  the  great  woods,  Honora  was  sur- 
prised to  see  what  a  handful  of  them 
there  were,  all  told. 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


235 


They  all  escorted  them  to  tlie  wind- 
ing path  that  led  to  Lizzy's  place,  and 
then  stopped  and  bade  them  good-night, 
lingering  to  hear  Father  Kimball's  part- 
ing words,  as  if  he  spoke  for  them  all : 

"  We  know,  Dallas,  that  your  work  is 
in  the  West,  but  we  hoped  that  you 
would  give  us  part  of  every  year.  There 
is  no  one  here  who  seems  to  belong  to 
us  so  much  as  you.  You  must  give 
your  summers  to  us." 

'•  I  will  do  that.  Manasquan  is  home 
to  me." 

He  noticed  a  curious  anxiety  on  their 
faces  until  he  had  spoken,  and  then  a 
quick  exchange  of  significant,  approving 
glances,  which  made  him  fancy  there 
was  some  hidden  meaning  in  the  ques- 
tion. But  he  forgot  it  when  they  were 
all  gone,  and  he  turned  to  follow  Lizzy, 
who  went  before  with  Honora,  leading 
the  way  to  her  solitary  home.  Even  his 
slow  eyes  noticed  how  her  native  air  had 
brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks  again 
and  the  waiting  laugh  to  her  eyes.  She 
had  put  off  her  dingy  chocolate  dress, 
and  wore  a  pretty,  neat-fitting  one  of 
blue,  and  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  twisted  in 
her  beautiful  hair,  in  honor  of  his  com- 
ing. Honora,  as  they  walked  side  by 
side  quite  silent,  watched  her  with  a 
keen,  anxious  scrutiny.  She  had  guessed, 
as  women  will,  Lizzy's  secret.  She  knew 
that  she  had  been  a  faithful  friend  to 
Dallas.  But  could  his  triumph  have 
driven  from  her  mind  the  lover  she  had 
lost  years  ago  1  Had  she  forgotten  the 
musical  voice  and  the  moonlight  and  the 
ebbing  tide  ?  Could  a  woman  forget  ? 
In  Honora's  creed,  for  a  dead  love  there 
was  no  resurrection,  and  no  flower  that 
grows  on  the  earth  was  fit  to  cover  its 
perpetually  yawning  grave. 

To  reach  the  Byrne  house  they  passed 
the  outskirts  of  Jim  Van  Zeldt's  great 
farm.  It  was  a  pleasant,  comfortable 
homestead,  even  in  winter — the  best  kept 
and  fullest  in  the  village.  Jim  himself, 
in  his  sailor  clothes,  was  at  the  gate 
waiting  for  them  to  come  up.  A  puny 
little  fellow,  Honora  thought  (who  mea- 
sured the  world  of  men  by  Dallas' 
brawny  build),  but  with  a  rare  genuine- 
ness   in    his    look    and    bearing  —  eood  ■ 


j  sense  and  fidelity.  Honora  had  not  for- 
gotten how  long  he  had  been  true  to 
Lizzy  before  he  married.  But  ooor 
Lizzy  had  the  grave  of  her  sacred  old 
love  to  guard,  of  course  !  Though  it 
was  a  pity — glancing  from  trusty,  cheer- 
ful Jim  to  the  snug  house  behind  him. 
Lizzy  quickened  her  pace  nervously  as 
they  came  near,  as  though  she  would 
have  hurried  by. 

But  that  dull,  tactless  Dallas  stopped 
short,  taking  Van  Zeldt's  outstretched 
hand.  "  Well,  Jim,  old  fellow,  you're 
grown  into  a  staid  citizen  and  house- 
holder, they  tell  me  .'"' 

'•Yes,  Galbraith." 

"  And  your  wife — Jenny  Noanes  ?  The 
prettiest  and  best  girl  in  the  county,  eh  ?" 

How  pale  Lizzy  grew  at  that  !  Ho- 
nora, angry  at  Dallas'  stupidity  (which 
was  certainly  growing  upon  him  every 
day),  tried  to  draw  her  away.  But  Jim 
stood  in  the  road  before  them. 

"  My  wife,"  he  said,  sturdily,  regard- 
less of  either  her  paleness  or  trembling, 
'■'■is  the  prettiest  and  best  woman  in  the 
world^ — to  me.  But  it  is  not  Jenny 
Noanes."  He  put  out  his  hand  and  took 
Lizzy's  in  his  own.  "  I  served  for  her 
as  long  as  Jacob  did  for  Rachel,  madam," 
he  said,  smiling. 

Honora  stood  aghast,  but  stupid  Dal- 
las had  them  both  by  the  hands  before 
Jim  had  done  speaking,  shaking  them 
again  and  again,  the  words  tumbling 
out  headlong  with  delight :  "  I  guessed 
it  the  minute  I  saw  Lizzy  !  I  remem- 
bered your  cousin,  Long  Jim  Van  Zeldt, 
as  we  used  to  call  him,  and  thought  he 
was  a  good  deal  more  likely  than  you  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself  with  Jenny 
Noanes.  And  you're  happy  at  last,  dear 
girl  ?  Honora,  are  you  never  going  to 
understand  ?" 

"  1  am  beginning  now,"  humbly,  giving 
Jim  a  feeble,  bewildered,  congratulatory 
smile. 

"And  here  is  home,"  said  Lizzy,  open- 
ing the  gate,  the  tears  coming  to  her 
bright  eyes  as  she  saw  Dallas  enter  it 

They  thought  they  never  had  known 
the  real  Lizzy  before.  She  was  so 
cheerful  and  winning  and  pretty  a  wife, 
so  full  of  odd,  attractive  little  devices-  to 


236 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


make  every  moment  different  from  and 
pleasanter  than  any  that  had  gone  before. 
The  house  was  not  a  chilHng  model  of 
neatness,  as  Honora  would  have  feared. 
It  was  all  in  use — bright,  warm,  just  dis- 
ordered enough  to  be  cozy  and  comfort- 
able. And  Lizzy  and  Jim  himself  seemed 
to  have  reached  their  last  wish  in  life 
when  they  had  Dallas  and  his  wife  under 
their  roof  at  last,  to  give  them  the  best 
of  their  home  and  its  welcome. 

Honora  went  up  to  Lizzy  as  they  sat 
by  the  supper-table  waiting  for  Dallas 
and  Van  Zeldt  to  come  in  from  their  in- 
spection of  the  stock.  "It  is  so  com- 
fortable and  good  that  you  are  married," 
she  said  heartily,  and  put  her  arms  about 
her  neck  and  kissed  her.  "  It  is  a  great 
deal  better  than—" 

"  Than  what,  Honora  ?"  with  wonder- 
ing face. 

"Than  anything  I  had  planned  for 
you,  dear."  She  really  could  not  bring 
the  idea  of  plump,  smiling  Lizzy  at  the 
head  of  her  well-filled  tea-table  and  that 
perpetually  yawning  grave  of  a  dead  love 
together  at  all. 

"  Yet  it  scarcely  seems  natural  to  see 
you  here,  Lizzy,"  said  Dallas,  as  they 
lingered  talking  over  the  table.  "  The 
house  in  which  you  lived  will  always  be 
my  remembrance  of  a  home  in  Mana- 
squan."     He  was  silent  suddenly. 

Lizzy  and  her  husband  exchanged  a 
quick,  significant  glance  :  they  remem- 
bered doubtless  the  chamber  in  it  that 
had  been  made  ready  for  Dallas,  and 
in  which  he  had  never  been  suiTered 
to  sleep.  A  sad  quiet  fell  on  them  all. 
They  could  not  forget  how  many  years 
of  his  life  had  been  wasted.  After  they 
rose  from  supper,  Lizzy  went  to  Dallas, 
where  he  stood  by  the  window,  and 
touched  him  gently  : 

"The  little  room — you  remember, 
Dallas  r 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"When  Jim  and  I  knew  that  the  time 
was  coming  that  you  could  go  into  it 
again,  we  arranged  it  just  as  it  was  on 
that  first  night.  It  was  Jim's  plan  then, 
you  know,"  with  a  blush.  "  There  is 
nothing  missing — not   the  least  of   the 


gifts  they  gave  you  to  show  how  true 
friends  they  were  to  you.  The  house  is 
sold.  I  have  this  home  now,  and  I 
parted  with  the  other.  ■  But  it  is  vacant, 
and  we  have  the  use  of  it  for  to-night. 
We  arranged  your  room.  We  thought 
you  would  like,  if  it  were  but  for  once 
only,  to  see  the  old  gifts,  and  to  think 
that  of  all  the  friends  who  gave  them 
there  is  not  one  lost  to  you." 

"  I  would  like  it,  Lizzy."  But  he  kept 
his  face  turned  from  her. 

"We  will  go  now,  then,"  quickly.  In 
a  few  moments  they  were  on  their  way. 
When  they  came  to  the  Byrne  place, 
Honora  noticed  that  the  out-buildings 
surrounding  the  house  were  in  sin- 
gularly good  repair,  the  house  itself 
covered  with  vines  which  would  shelter 
it  in  summer :  behind  it  were  Dallas' 
old  interminable  pine  woods,  and  in 
front  the  sea  rolled  in  with  slow,  lapping 
murmur  on  the  yellow  beach.  But  Dal- 
las saw  nothing.  He  walked  with  his 
head  down,  silent — his  breath  coming 
heavily. 

In  all  his  prison-life  he  had  thought 
of  that  homely  room  as  of  the  one  place 
from  which  he  was  barred.  It  had  come 
to  signify  to  him  the  manly  honor,  the 
trust,  he  had  lost.  Some  day  he  might 
reach  the  door  of  heaven,  but  the  door  of 
that  little  chamber,  with  all  its  meaning, 
was  shut  for  ever  upon  him. 

Now  it  was  open  to  him. 

He  did  not  even  see  that  Lizzy  had 
had  the  house  brilliantly  lighted,  as  for 
an  illumination.  It  had  been  furnished 
for  the  owner,  like  the  other  houses  of 
the  neighborhood,  with  plain  homespun 
carpets  and  such  simple  wooden  furni- 
ture as  the  village  workmen  could  make. 
Lizzy  and  Jim  waited  outside. 

"  There  is  no  one  there,"  they  said. 
"You  must  go  in  alone." 

He  went  in,  taking  Honora  by  the 
hand,  as  one  child  would  another.  The 
door  of  his  old  room  was  open :  a  fire 
burned,  as  on  that  night  long  ago,  on  the 
hearth.  There  were  the  old,  homely 
gifts  :  nothing  missing  or  decayed  :  the 
name  of  the  giver  on  each.  He  went 
about  the  room  slowly  without  a  word, 
putting  his  fingers  on  one  and  then  an- 


DALLAS  GALBRAITH. 


237 


other,  as  though  each  dumb,  tender 
touch  brought  back  a  friend  again,  long 
dead,  to  life. 

But  when  he  came  to  the  little  table 
in  front  of  the  fire,  he  stood  still,  and 
after  a  moment  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand.  For  there,  as  on  an  altar,  lay 
the  Bible  open,  and  beside  it  a  deed  of 
the  house  and  farm,  and  on  the  fly-leaf 
was  written  : 

"To  Dallas  Galbraith  and  Ho- 

NORA  HIS  WIFE,  FROM  THE  PEOPLE  OF 
MaNASQUAN,  in  token  of  the  LOVE 
THEY  BEAR  THEM." 

There  was  an  arrival  at  Nixon's  tav- 
ern two  or  three  days  after  that.  There 
had  been  an  arrival  expected  in  Mana- 
squan  for  some  time.  William  and  Aaron 
Platzek  were  looked  for  during  this  month 
or  the  next  to  harvest  their  winter  crop 
of  furs  on  this  coast  for  the  New  York 
market.  But  the  two  men  who  stepped 
out  of  Joshua  Sutphen's  sled,  in  front 
of  the  little  porch,  were  not  the  pelt- 
hucksters  :  that  was  plain  to  all  of  the 
group  assembled  smoking  around  the 
fire  in  the  httle  bar-room.  They  had 
never  been  seen  on  this  beach  before. 
One  was  a  stout,  florid  man,  with  eye- 
brows, whiskers  and  frogged  overcoat 
alike  fierce,  black  and  assertant ;  the 
other  a  tall,  spare,  gray-headed  old  gen- 
tleman, with  pale,  delicate  face  and  hands, 
a  hook  nose,  keen,  kindly  eyes. 

Nixon,  after  reconnoitering  the  arrival 
in  perfect  silence  through  the  window  for 
some  minutes  without  rising,  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe  leisurely,  laid  it 
on  the  bricks  of  the  chimney,  and  with 
a  preparator}^  jerk  of  his  suspenders 
went  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
After  a  short  colloquy,  in  which  the  stout 
man  was  violent,  the  old  gentleman 
silent  and  anxious,  and  Nixon  stolid  as 
the  log  against  which  he  leaned,  the 
strangers  turned  off"  irresolutely,  and  Joe 
came  back  and  relighted  his  pipe. 

No  one  spoke,  these  fishermen  who 
smoked  the  winter  away  there  being  as 
incurious  and  stoical  as  Indians.  At 
last  Nixon  chuckled  aloud :  "  They'll 
not  make  much  of  a  run  here.  I 
becalmed  their  boats,  /  reckon." 


"  How  so,  Joseph  ?" 

"  They  were  inquiring  for  Dallas  Gal- 
braith. But  I  knowed  nothin'  of  Dallas 
Galbraith.  How  could  I  tell  what  was 
their  errand  with  the  lad  V  with  a  shrewd 
nod. 

"  Seems  as  if  you  be  a  little  too  keer- 
ful,  Nixon,'-  said  Becker. 

"  How  did  I  know,"  sententiously, 
"but  the  news  of  the  property  Lad- 
doun's  left  him  had  got  abroad  .''  Tliere 
be  quite  an  extra  lot  of  sharpers  in  New 
York  this  winter,  I  judge  by  the  papers, 
and  they'd  think  nothin'  of  runnin'  down 
the  lad  even  here,  and  fleecin'  him.  I 
thought  of  that,  instant.  You  don't 
catch  a  weasel  asleep  when  that  weasel 
be  Joe  Nixon." 

"  That's  so,  Joseph.  You  were  right 
there,"  knitting  their  brows  solemnly. 

They  decided  that  "  Dallas  should  be 
warned  immediate,"  but  went  on  smoking 
for  the  next  two  hours,  chewing  the  cud 
of  the  matter. 

The  strangers  stood  undecided  upon 
the  road  for  a  few  moments. 

"  It  is  not  possible  that  we  can  have 
missed  them,  after  all,"  said  the  younger 
man.  "  Of  all  the  dead,  forgotten  cor- 
ners of  the  world,  this  is  the  queerest. 
I'll  go  to  some  of  these  houses  and  see 
if  I  can  find  Dallas." 

"  I  think  I  will  try  the  woods."  His 
long,  uncertain  search  and  this  last  dis- 
appointment had  told  on  the  frail,  old 
man  more  than  even  his  companion 
knew.  But  the  search  was  almost  over, 
for  before  he  had  threaded  the  winding 
paths  in  the  sand  through  the  dark  pines 
for  more  than  half  an  hour,  he  saw  a 
broad-shouldered  fellow  on  his  knees 
digging  with  a  trowel,  while  a  little  wo- 
man in  a  water-proof  cloak  and  hood 
held  a  basket  ready  to  receive  the  treas- 
ure, whatever  it  was.  He  went  up  softly 
behind  them  and  touched  them. 

"  Children,  it  is  time  for  you  to  come 
home,"  he  said.  His  throat  was  dry  and 
husky,  and  he  could  scarcely  articulate. 
But  they  would  have  understood  if  he 
had  not  spoken  at  all. 

Colonel  Pervis  met  them  coming 
through  the  woods  soon  after,  the  old 
man  in  the  middle,  holding  them  both 


23S 


DALLAS   GALBRAITH. 


as  if  afraid  if  he  let  them  go  they  miglit 
vanish  out  of  his  sight ;  so  unHke  were 
the  three  to  each  other,  so  sharply  lined 
the  outer  differences  between  them,  each 
difference  but  holding  them  closer  to- 
gether :  so  gay  and  tender,  yet  so  full 
of  sorrowful  remembrances,  the  integral 
bond  between  them,  that  even  the  Colo- 
nel dully  recognized  them  as  a  rare  and 
strangely  united  little  company,  whose 
fellowship  of  instincts  together  was  a 
something  which  few  men  were  born 
able  to  understand. 

He  broke  in  on  them  like  a  thunder- 
storm: "God  bless  you,  Dallas!  Thank 
the  Lord,  I  see  you  again  !  And  Honora 
has  taken  to  digging,  too  ?  You've  told 
them  all  about  it  ?"  anxiously,  in  an  audible 
aside. 

"  No,  I  forgot  to  mention  the  partic- 
ulars. I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
children.  But  Dallas  knows  that  he  is 
clear.     That  is  the  essential  part." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  essential  of  course. 
But  the  property  ?  Is  it  possible  you 
did  not  mention  the  property  ?  Lad- 
doun's  will,  Dallas.  He  left  it  with  Dick 
Potter  at  the  gate,  and  it  establishes 
your  innocence,  and — are  you  listening, 
Honora  ? — and  leaves  you  I  don't  know 
how  much  money  and  his  share  in  a 
silver  mine.  Now  don't  be  excited,  boy. 
It's  not  a  great  fortune,  but  it's  enough 
to  bring  back  the  old  times  to  the  Stone- 
post  farm.  You'll  live  at  your  ease  for 
the  rest  of  your  life.  By  George  !  We'll 
have  a  carouse  that'll  waken  the  county 
when  we  get  home  !" 

The  Colonel's  outbreak  found  no  echo. 
They  walked  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
when  Dallas  said,  gravely  turning  to  his 
grandfather :  "  I  have  considered  tliis 
matter  with  Honora,  sir,  and  our  feeling 
is  the  same  with  regard  to  the  money. 
I  hope  you  will  understand  the  decision 
we  made  about  it." 

"  I  think  I  understand  it  now,  Dal- 
las," with  a  smile,  looking  at  him. 

Dallas'  face  brightened  and  he  nodded. 
«  No,"  he  said,  soberly.  "  I  have  no  ill- 
will  to  Laddoun,  God  knows.  But  I 
could  not  live  in  idleness  and  eat  the 
bread  and  butter  that  were  bought  with 
his  money.     He  gave  it  to  me  as  an  act 


of  reparation.  If  I  use  it  to  save  othei 
boys  from  that  hell  where  he  thrust  me, 
it  will  be  such  an  act  of  reparation,  I 
think.     But  it  is  not  mine." 

The  Colonel's  jaw  fell :  "  You  don't 
mean  it,  Dallas  !  It's  one  of  your  dry 
jokes,  that's  all !  You've  not  caught 
Dour's  mania  about  the  development  of 
the  inner  self  through  poverty  ?  He 
talks  of  founding  an  inner-developing 
brotherhood,  to  wear  sackcloth  and  live 
on  split  peas  ;  but  you're  madder  than 
he  is." 

Dallas  laughed  :  "  I  can't  join  Dour. 
I'm  always  a  better  man  after  a  good 
dinner  and  with  a  decent  coat  on  my 
back,  and  I  may  try  to  be  a  rich  man 
3'et.  But —  No  matter.  We  are  at 
home  now,"  pausing  at  the  door  of  their 
own  house.  For  Honora  had  insisted 
on  making  it  their  home  at  once.  Much 
to  the  delight  of  the  people,  who  took 
care  that  she  should  not  want  the  mate- 
rial for  housekeeping,  though  they  would 
hardly  suffer  her  to  break  bread  under 
her  own  roof 

Their  hospitality  reached  its  climax 
when  Mr.  Galbraith  and  Colonel  Pervis 
were  formally  made  known  to  them  and 
were  installed  at  once  as  guests  of  the 
village.  It  was  a  week  before  they  went 
back,  taking  Dallas  and  Honora  with 
them  ;  and  in  that  time  there  was  not  a 
fisherman  or  wrecker  in  Ocean  county 
with  whom  the  Colonel  was  not  on  terms 
of  intimacy  and  mutual  confidence.  He 
matched  their  seafaring  exploits  by  his 
bear  stories,  swort  that  apple-jack  was 
the  best  native  drink  in  the  States,  took 
a  demijohn  of  it  home,  and  promised  to 
come  back  every  summer — a  promise 
which  he  religiously  kept. 

The  group  about  the  bar-room  fire 
chuckled  over  their  pipes  when  he  was 
mentioned.  "  Colonel's  thorough-grit," 
they  said.  "  But  the  old  gendeman, 
he's  got  the  real  strain  of  blood.  Same 
as  Dallas." 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

Thanksgiving-day.     It  came  under 
Madam  Galbraith's  jurisdiction  at  irregxi- 


DALLAS  GALBRALTH. 


239 


lar  times,  for  it  was  her  fancy  to  keep  it, 
not  by  the  governor's  appointment,  but 
along  with  Nature,  when  the  barns  were 
still  empty,  but  the  fields  full  of  corn,  wlien 
the  purple  plums  yet  dotted  the  rank  grass 
of  the  orchard,  and  the  ungathered  crim- 
son peaches  grew  mottled  with  black  un- 
der the  bee's  sting.  She  had  chosen  in 
these  last  few  years  to  give  thanks,  not 
when  both  summer  and  summer's  work 
were  done,  and  the  air  shivered  with  com- 
ing winter,  but  on  one  of  those  October 
days  when,  from  very  excess  of  warmth 
and  life,  the  world  and  man  are  at  rest 
and  quiet. 

"It  is  not  for  the  use  of  the  earth  we 
should  praise  Him,  Dallas,"  she  would 
say,  "  but  for  the  hint  it  gives  us  of 
His  gi-eat  glory." 

He  humored  her  in  this  whim  as  in 
every  other.  She  was  full  of  such  fan- 
cies now,  in  all  of  which  they  detected  a 
meaning  unselfish  and  genuine. 

This  Thanksgiving-day  was  late  in 
the  month,  for  they  had  waited  for  Dal- 
las to  return,  who  had  been  gone  for 
months,  "digging,"  as  Honora  loosely 
stated,  in  the  West.  The  wind  from  the 
north  was  cold,  but  the  west  was  burn- 
ing with  a  golden  sunset,  which  mellowed 
the  outhne  of  the  mountains  and  valley — 
a  landscape  which  is  one  of  the  most 
masculine  and  articulate  with  meaning 
in  the  world.  But  this  low  afternoon 
light  softened  it :  the  mountains  drew 
farther  away  in  rhelancholy  gray  shadow, 
while,  wherever  a  rough  little  water-course 
ran  through  the  valley,  a  soft  thread  of 
mist  hung  over  it,  bright  with  the  change- 
ful hues  of  the  opal,  and,  as  though  the 
ground  tried  to  vie  with  the  water,  its 
dullness  and  brownness  burst  in  this 
sunlight  into  a  sweet  madness  of  color 
and  perfume,  such  as  belong  in  the 
Western  States  only  to  the  low-lying  in- 
land bottoms.  Color  unmatched  in  purity, 
Mr.  Galbraith  thought,  from  the  brilliant 
dyes  of  the  massed  forests  on  the  dis- 
tant hill-sides  to  the  browns  and  purples 
of  the  feathery  moss  and  lichen  that 
hung  from  the  stone  walls  of  the  house. 

Four  years  had  passed  since  Dallas 
was  married — the  epoch  from  which  his- 
tory  was    dated   in    that  house.     Four 


years  since  Madam  Galbraith's  colony 
had  failed.  Nature,  whose  charity  al- 
ways covers  before  it  cures,  had  hid  the 
charred,  unsightly  signs  of  her  folly  un- 
der this  moss  and  lichen  before  she  ab- 
sorbed them  back  into  the  earth.  You 
could  see  the  green  heaps  from  the  bal- 
cony of  the  old  homestead  of  the  Dours, 
set  like  a  watch-tower  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  Madam  Galbraith  stood  there 
now.  She  glanced  at  the  mossy  piles, 
but  with  only  a  passing  frown  :  there 
were  cheerfuller  objects  in  the  quiet 
landscape.  For  they  had  kept  the  day 
in  the  old  royal  fashion  at  the  farm,  and 
the  groups  of  friends  and  neighbors  were 
making  their  way  home  through  the 
winding  roads  and  shady  lanes  in  the 
pleasant  evening  light.  Colonel  Pervis 
stood  at  the  gate  speeding  them  on  their 
way,  his  hat  off,  the  wind  blowing  back 
his  hair  from  his  face.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  gray  in  the  hair  now,  but 
his  voice  was  as  loud  as  ever,  and  his 
face  as  red  and  hearty.  It  would  have 
been  like  putting  out  the  fire  in  the  hos- 
pitable house  of  the  Galbraiths  to  miss 
the  Colonel  from  its  hearth. 

She  stooped  to  wave  her  hand  to 
Peggy  Beck  and  her  husband  in  their 
snug  carry-all,  turning  into  the  lonely 
road  leading  to  the  Queen.  They  have 
both  grown  stouter  and  jollier  with  time, 
and  the  heavy  recklessness  with  which 
Beck  talks  of  stocks,  and  the  trim  rib- 
bons in  Peggy's  bonnet,  hint  that  the 
store  in  the  old  tea-pot  is  not  diminished. 
Matt,  a  manly,  curly-headed  lad,  is  left 
behind  playing  with  a  frank-faced  little 
fellow  on  the  lawn.  Madam  Galbraith 
turns  from  everything  else  to  watch 
them. 

One  can  see  in  this  clear  light  as  she 
stoops  that  the  shining  white  mane  of 
hair,  rolled  like  a  crown  about  her  head, 
is  dimmed  in  the  last  few  years — that 
her  uncouth,  unwomanly  frame  is  more 
rawboned  and  swarthy  than  before,  ^'et 
the  imperious  grace  which  gave  magnetic 
power  to  her  youth  and  beauty  lingers  in 
the  ungainly  body,  like  the  music  ct  a 
song' of  which  the  words  are  forgotten. 
Matt  and  the  boy  with  whom  he  plays  find 
a  companion  in  her,  who  will  make  their 


240 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


remembrance  of  childhood  enchanted 
ground  for  them  when  she  and  childhood 
belong  only  to  remembrance.  She  hkes 
best  to  talk  to  them.  They  find  in  her  a 
childish  love  of  laughter  and  fun  which 
does  not  belong  to  younger,  graver  peo- 
ple:  a  store  of  odd,  old  superstitions, 
strange,  pathetic  fancies,  which,  it  seems, 
she  has  always  nourished,  come  to  light 
as  she  grows  older.  They  learn,  day  by 
day,  from  her,  too,  an  awful  reverence  for 
God,  outside  of  all  the  creeds  of  the 
churches. 

The  stony  scales  of  the  shell  are 
worn  away,  it  is  so  old  ;  and  the  deli- 
cate tints  are  bared  in  which  the  living 
creature  within  has  hid  itself  so  long. 

Four  years  have  passed  since  she 
stood  on  the  same  place  in  her  flash  of 
triumph  only  to  witness  her  defeat — to 
see  her  Hfe's  scheme  swept  away  by  the 
torrent  of  flame  in  a  single  night— to  see, 
when  the  morning  dawned,  black  ruin 
traced  on  every  mountain  side,  every  val- 
ley and  field. 

But  now  the  mountain  sides,  valleys 
and  fields  are  full  of  a  noble  stir  and 
life,  which  make  her  old  heart  beat  with 
a  pride  of  which  the  Dour  blood  knew 
nothing.  For  in  these  years  all  traces  of 
the  ruin  and  waste  have  been  blotted  out, 
and  from  the  shaded  roads  and  fields 
there  floats  up  the  sound  of  voices, 
whose  meaning  makes  the  ancient  do- 
minion of  the  Dours  shine  fair  in  her 
eyes  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord. 

For  so  she  idealizes  Dallas'  great 
charity. 

But  to  him  and  the  workers  in  it,  it  is 
practical  and  difficult  enough.  She  can 
see  from  where  she  stands  the  house 
where  Mr.  Rattlin  lives  with  his  troop  of 
boys.  It  is  almost  a  hamlet  now  in  the 
woods,  with  school,  workshops  and  farm 
out-buildings.  There  is  no  machine- 
management  in  it,  even  Mrs.  Duffield 
acknowledges,  adding  that  it  is  because 
neither  Mr.  Rattlin  nor  Dallas  have  any 
metallic  force.  They  are  imposed  upon, 
and  that  often,  but  they  go  on  steadily, 
studying  each  boy's  capacity,  educating 
him  from  that  hint,  furnishing  him  with 
tools,  or  land,  or  capital,  and  bidding 
him,  in  God's  name,  work  his  own  way. 


Dour  is  engaged  in  the  work  with  the 
energy  and  foresight  of  a  genuine  New 
Englander.  He  shows  a  great  deal  of 
sound  judgment  and  tact  in  his  manage- 
ment :  he  is  a  spiritualist  now,  has  suf- 
fered Emerson  to  grow  dusty  on  his 
shelves,  and  talks  no  more  of  the  disci- 
pline of  poverty  upon  the  inner  life.  On 
the  contrary,  he  eats  heartily,  has  grown 
fat,  and  is  laying  up  a  snug  sum  in  rail- 
road bonds. 

Dallas  has  no  railroad  bonds :  he  has 
not  yet  begun  to  make  himself  a  rich  man. 
He  travels  and  digs  and  analyzes  as  con- 
stantly as  other  men  breathe  ;  but  such 
work  as  his  is  not  well  paid — in  money. 

It  is  probable  that  he  will  dig  and  an- 
alyze to  the  end. 

He  sits  now  on  the  grassy  slope  in 
front  of  the  great  entrance,  in  the  gray, 
loose  clothes  in  which  he  feels  himself 
at  home.  A  powerful  man,  with  broad 
chest,  white  throat,  grave,  far-seeing 
eyes  and  a  ready,  tender  smile.  One 
can  detect  a  curious  likeness  in  his  face 
to  that  of  an  older,  weaker  man  who 
sits  on  the  bench  behind  him.  They  are 
seldom  apart,  though  they  talk  but  little 
when  together.  Yet  one  is  restless  and 
uneasy  when  the  other  is  away.  Mr. 
Galbraith,  even,  has  grown  so  infatuated 
with  Dallas'  pursuits  that  he  goes  with 
him  on  his  shorter  journeys. 

Presently,  when  the  sun  was  low  and 
threw  the  long  shadows  of  the  walnut 
tree  across  the  warm  grass,  Honora 
came  through  them  and  sat  down  beside 
her  husband.  Her  uncle  stroked  the 
soft  brown  hair,  and  Dallas  took  her 
hand  in  his — a  soft  hand  and  a  strong 
one.  So  the  little  company  of  the  old 
times  was  complete.  Yet  there  was  a 
change  in  them,  as  though  life,  in  son- 
way,  widened  and  sweetened  for  them  all, 
turned  into  a  new  and  broader  current. 

After  a  while,  the  boy  who  was  Ma- 
dam Galbraith's  friend  came  running 
and  stood  among  them,  and  then,  look- 
ing in  their  faces,  one  could  know  the 
cause  of  their  change — that  in  these 
years  gone  God  had  chosen  for  them 
from  His  treasure-house  the  best  gift 
of  all. 

The  sun  was  almost  down.     Through 


DALLAS    GALBRAITH. 


241 


the  twilight  they  caught  the  echo  of  a 
quiet,  cheery  song,  and  looked  at  each 
other  smiling.  It  was  Dallas'  mother 
singing  to  herself  when  she  thought  no 
one  heard  her.  Her  voice  was  broken : 
she  never  sang,  even  for  the  boy,  dear 
as  he  was  to  her.  Mr.  Rattlin  passed 
them,  a  little  grayer,  a  little  stouter — 
a  change  in  his  dress  that  showed  the 
world  had  gone  well  with  him.  No  hap- 
pier face,  for  that  Nature  could  not 
make.  Then  the  evening  grew  quite 
still,  the  solemn  shadows  lengthening 
over  the  genial,  ruddy  light. 

The  little  preacher  paused  at  the  gate, 
looking  back  at  them.  The  holy  mean- 
ing of  the  day  was  upon  him  still,  and 
seemed  to  give  to  the  eyes  of  the  old 
man  who  walked  so  close  to  his  Master, 
doing  His  work  so  quietly,  a  prophetic 
insight.  God  had  taken  thought  for  him 
and  his  unused  strength,  and  late  in  the 
day  had  given  to  him  a  share  in  a  great 
work.  In  tlie  3-ears  to  come  he  saw  him- 
self gathering  to  the  land  of  the  old,  clean- 
blooded  Dours,  from  prison,  from  city 
den  and  almshouse,  the  wronged  and 
the  outcast,  learning  through  him  a  bet- 
ter, more  gracious  life  than  their  youth 
had  ever  known — learning- through  him 
a  certain  way  to  that  God  which  they 
had  never  known. 

Yet  though  the  simple  follower  of 
Christ  had  given  his  whole  heart  to  his 
work,  and  would  be  very  dear  to  the  lit- 
tle outcasts,  they  will  have  another  friend 
whom  they  will  love  far  better — the 
strong,  healthy  man  yonder,  reticent  to 
all  others,  but  to  them  frank,  cheerful 
and  outspoken ;  a  strange,  pathetic  ten- 
derness in  his  care  for  them — coming 
closer  to  them  than  any  other  man  could 
ever  do,  through  some  instinct  or  secret 
f  his  life  to  them  unknown. 

<'  So  it  will  always  be  in  these  years  to 
come.  God  has  fitted  him  for  this 
work,"  he  said,  lingering,  as  he  looked 
back  at  Dallas.  "  He  has  been  down 
like-  his  Master  in  the  depths  from 
which  he  would  save  them,  and  has 
learned  there  some  secret  which  I  can 
never  know." 

The  air  is  growing  chilly  and  rustles 
the  leaves  of  the  great  .sycamores  which 
10 


darken  the  front  of  the  house.  But 
through  them  they  see  the  ruddy  light 
of  the  open  windows,  and  the  Colonel 
within,  glancing  over  the  supper-table, 
and  stirring  the  fire  to  make  all  ready 
for  the  evening.  Madam  Galbraith  on 
her  balcony,  and  Mrs.  DufReld  from  her 
window,  are  both  looking  for  the  boy  be- 
fore they  go  down.  For  over  all  the  wo- 
men in  the  house  Master  Dour  Galbraith 
is  king. 

He  waits  for  his  grandfather,  however, 
taking  away  the  old  man's  cane  and  putting 
the  delicate,  withered  hand  upon  his 
own  curly  head,  walking  very  stiffly  and 
slow,  fancying  that  all  the  strength  of 
the  party  lies  in  his  own  little  body.  He 
gives  one  hand  to  his  mother  also  as 
they  go,  she  being  a  woman  and  needing 
help.  So  they  walk,  very  gravely,  to  the 
house,  not  daring  to  smile  to  each  other 
lest  the  child  should  see  them  and  be 
disheartened. 

But  Dallas  lingers  behind.  The 
golden  light  of  the  evening,  as  it  bathes 
the  valley  and  far-off  mountains,  the 
old  homestead  set  against  the  hills,  and 
the  retreating  figures,  falls  upon  him 
with  a  great  calm.  It  seems  to  him  a 
thanksgiving.  The  meaning  of  the  day 
grows  clearer  to  him  here  in  the  open 
air ;  and  owing  to  his  habits  and  odd 
bent  of  thought,  all  the  solitary  places 
in  the  world  with  which  he  is  familiar 
become  curiously  present  to  him,  and 
take  part  in  this  quiet  glow — the  vast 
flats  of  the  West,  trailed  with  black  buf- 
falo herds,  the  rank,  strong-smelling  Mis- 
sissippi bayous,  the  drowsy  Manasquan 
village,  with  the  sea  lashing  its  silent 
stretches  of  gray  sand. 

He  knows  but  little  of  any  book  but 
that  which  these  open  to  him.  But  year 
by  year  he  spells  more  clearly  the  mean- 
ing which  underlies  its  letters  —  the 
Eternal  Order,  in  which  no  atom  fails  of 
its  work  in  the  sure  justice  and  help 
which  each  renders  to  the  other. 

The  inevitable  Good  at  last. 

He  turns  to  go  in.  There  is  a  grave 
yonder  in  that  hill-gap  which  will  not 
take  its  part  in  the  great  Thanksgiving 
day.  And  yet  he  looks  at  it  with  doubt- 
ing eyes.     Good  as   well  as   evil  were 


242 


DALLA  S    GA  LB  I?  A I T/7. 


shut  out  from  the  world  in  Laddoun's 
grave.  There  are  dewy  mosses  and 
sweet  flowers  which  have  taken  tlie 
place  of  the  unwholesome  body.  Is  it  in 
the  soul  of  man  alone  that  the  evil,  use- 
less and  unalterable  elements  of  God's 
universe  lie  ?  What  slow  processes  are 
His  in  that  well-veiled  secresy  of  Death  ? 
Nature  in  her  great  charity  covers  before 
she  cures. 

And  as  he  goes  to  his  home  in  the 
quiet  evening,  his  own  life  becomes 
present  to  Dallas  Galbraith  as  never  be- 
fore, in  all  its  full  and  completed  mean- 
ing ;   and   seeino;  in   that   home,   in    his 


wife  and  child,  only  another  name  for 
God's  tenderness  to  him,  feeling  how  his 
old  wrong  had  softened  his  heart  toward 
all  hurt  people,  all  those  who  had  sinned 
and  been  oppressed  with  the  burden  of 
untoward  fate,  he  knows  the  share  his 
life  has  borne  in  the  great  scheme  of 
order  —  knows  that  as  the  strange 
flower  upon  the  peak  of  the  Sierras  was 
evidence  of  an  unknown,  immutable  law, 
so  in  the  story  of  the  humblest  man 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  luck  or  chance 
— that  God  is  under  the  hardest  circum- 
stance, and  that  God  is  good. 


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best  novels  which  we  have  ever  read." 

STEATHMOEE;   OS,  WROUGHT  BY  HIS  OWN   HAND. 

"  It  is  romance  of  the  intense  school,  but  it  is  written  with  more  power,  fluency  and  brilliancy  than  the  works  ol 
Miss  Braddon  and  Mrs.  Wood,  while  its  scenes  and  characters  are  taken  from  high  life." — Boston  Traiiscripi. 


CHANDOS 


"  Those  who  have  read  these  two  last-named  brilliant  works  of  fiction  (Granville  de  Vigne  and  Strathmore)  will 
be  sure  to  read  Chajidos.  It  is  characterized  by  the  same  gorgeous  coloring  of  style  and  somewhat  exaggerated  por- 
trniture  of  scenes  and  characters,  but  it  is  a  story  of  surpassing  power  and  interest,  and  wiU  take  fi-ont  rank  in  tliat 
department  of  fiction  which  is  styled  sensational." — Pittsburg  Evenmg  Chronicle. 


IDALIA. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  love  and  hatred,  of  affection  and  jealousy,  of  intrigue  and  devotion We  think  this 

novel  will  attain  a  wide  popularity,  especially  among  those  whose  refined  taste  enables  them  to  appreciate  and  enjoy 
what  is  truly  beautifirl  in  literature." — Albany  Eve7iing  yourtial. 

UNDER  TWO    FLAGS. 

A.    SXOT7Y    OF    THE    HOXJSEHOEX)    ^jSTD    THE    IDESERT. 

"  '  Under  Two  Flags'  is  immeasurably  superior  to  '  Idalia,'  and  while  many  readers  will  find  fault  with  it  as  ex- 
travagant and  sensational,  no  one  will  be  able  to  resist  its  fascination  who  once  begins  its  perusal. " — Philadelphia 
Evening  Bulletiti. 

II. 

NOV^ELETTES. 

Each  of  these  volumes  contains  a  selection  of  "  Ouida's"  popular  Tales  and  Stories. 
PRICE  $1.75   EACH. 


FIRST    SERIES. 

CECIL    CASTLEMAINE'S    GAGE. 

SECO^N-r)     SERIES. 

RANDOLPH    GORDON. 

THIRD    SERIES. 

BEATRICE    BOVILLE. 

"  The  many  works  already  in  print  by  this  versatile  authoress  have  established  her  rei^utation  as  a  novelist,  and 
there  short  stories  contribute  largely  to  the  stock  of  pleasing  narratives  and  adventures  alive  to  the  memory  of  all 
wlio  are  given  to  romance  and  fiction." — New  Haven  Journal. 


The  above  are  all  handsomely  and  uniformly  bound  in  cloth,  and  are  for  sale  by  book- 
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OF 

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SIR  EDWARD   BULWER   LYTTON,  BART., 

(Loud  Lyttox), 

IS  NOW   COMPLETE  IN 

TWENTY-TWO  NEAT  16M0.  VOLUMES. 

T»i'liite<i    on    Tinted.    I»a.per,    Avltli    Engraved.    Fi-ontisi^iece. 

EACH  OF  THE  VOLUMES  AVERAGING  OVER  700  PAGES. 

H^TsTESOAIELY    BOUIsTD    ITsT    GR-EElSr    IVIOROCCO    CLOTH. 

:f:r.io:k!  Si-so  i^eie^  "v-oi-i. 

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neat,  $44.00.    Half  calf  extra,  gilt  top,  $66.00.    Half 

Turkey,  gilt  top,  $66.00. 

THE   FOLLOWING   ARE    EACH   COMPLETE    IN   ONE   VOLUME  : 

THE    CAXTONS.  —  PELHAM.  — EUGENE    ARAM.  — THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS. —  LU- 

CRETIA.— DEVEREUX.— THE   LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL— RIENZL— GODOLPHIN.— 

A  STRANGE  STORY.—  ZANONI.— HAROLD.— LEILA,  PILGRIMS  OF  THE 

RHINE,  AND  CALDERON.— NIGHT  AND  MORNING.— ERNEST 

MALTRAVERS.— ALICE.— PAUL  CLIFFORD.— 

THE  DISOWNED. 

EACH    COMPLETE    IN   TWO   VOLUMES  : 

"MY   NOVEL"— WHAT  WILL  HE   DO  WITH    IT? 


THE  PRESS  SAYS  OF  THE  ''GLOBE  BULWER." 

"  We  have  more  than  once  commended  the  Globe  as  the  best  edition  of  Buhver  accessible  to 
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....  "The  convenient  size,  beautiful  style  and  cheapness  of  this  edition  are  worthy  the 
attention  of  book-buyers." — Pittsburg  Gazette. 

"  The  beauty  of  this  edition  has  frequently  challenged  our  admiration,  and  it  certainly  de- 
serves commendation." — Chicago  Evening  Joiirnal. 

....  "They  are  models  well  worthy  the  imitation  of  other  American  book-makers." — 
Philadelphia  Age. 

N.  B. — Any  of  the  above  volumes  will  be  mailed  free  to  any  party  sending  two  subscriptions 
($8)  to  Lippincott's  Magazine. 

EACH    NOVEL    SOLD    SEPAJRATELT. 

for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

713  &  717  MJLKKICT  ST.,  rUILADJ^LPIIIA 


VALUABLE  AND   INSTRUCTIYE  WORKS 

JRecently  Piihlished  hij 

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I. 

THE  FOUR  GOSPELS. 

The  Unconscious  Truth  of  the  Four  Gospels.     By  Rev.  W.  H.  Furness,  D.D.     12mo. 
Tinted  paper.     Fine  cloth.     $1.25. 

II. 

A  SUMMER  IN  ICELAND. 

By  C.  W.  Paijkull.     Translated  by  M.  R.  Barnard,  B.A.     With  Map  and  numeTous 
Illustrations.     8vo.     Cloth.     $5.00. 

III. 

EIVE  YEARS  WITHIN   THE   GOLDEN  GATE. 

Ry  Isabella  Saxos.     Crown  8vo.     Fine  stamped  cloth.     $2.50. 

IV. 

AMONG  THE  ARABS. 

A  NarratiTC  of  Adventures  in  Algeria.     By  G.  Naphegyi,  M.D.     12mo.     With  Portrait 
of  Author.     Tinted  paper.     Fine  cloth.     $1.75. 

V. 

THE  HERMITS. 

By  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley.    Illustrated.    12mo.    Fine  cloth.    $2.00.    Making  the  second 
volume  of  the  Sunday  Library. 

VI. 

CURIOUS  MYTHS. 

Curious  Myths  of  the  Middle  Ages.    By  S.  Baring  Gould.    Second  Series.    12mo.    Illus- 
trated.    Tinted  paper.     Fine  cloth.     $2.50. 

VII. 

CAMEOS  EROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY. 

By  the  author  of  "  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe."     12mo.     Tinted  paper.     Fine  cloth.     $1.75. 

VIII. 

LAS  CASAS. 

The  Life  of  Las  Casas,  the  "Apostle  of  the  Indies."     By  Arthur  Helps,  author  of 
"Friends  in  Council,"  etc.    With  Map.    Crown  8vo.    Tinted  paper.    Fine  vellum  cloth.    $2.75. 

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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
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Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  jjrior  to  date  due. 
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JU!'15  i073  5  7 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 

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